


The Crystal Skull

by Soledad



Series: The Lost Voyages of the Next Generation [5]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Book-canon Andorian Culture, Cheesy Pick-up Lines (Canon), Elderly Women Aren't Fools, Ever-grumbling Klingons, Ferengi Rules of Acquisition, Gen, Possible Ferengi History (AU), Pride Cometh Before The Fall - Even For Cocky First Officers, Single-Minded Vulcans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-06 00:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11024703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: The Enterprise is bringing surprises to an archaeological expedition lead by an old friend of Captain Picard’s on Bolaxnu 7. Since the Ferengi are interested in the planet, too, things take unexpected turns. And then Riker begins to change…This particular story is based on the similarly-titled story idea of Patrick Barry.Timeframe:early season 5, in the year 2368, after the episode “Darmok” but before “Ensign Ro”.





	1. The Lost City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sessethantis zh’Cheen is book canon, borrowed from the DS9 relaunch series.  
> For visuals: Dr Boudreau is “played” by Nichelle Nichols. See here: http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/memorydelta/images/f/f8/Uhura2306.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20121126182425  
> The vista of Bolaxnu 7 was inspired by the picture “Alien Paradise” by Inge Nielsen.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**   
**CHAPTER 01 – THE LOST CITY**

At Stardate 45 059.1 the USS _Enterprise_ left the orbit of El-Adrel IV, heading back to Federation territory, while the sleek Tamarian ship made an elegant slope in the opposite direction. Standing at the huge windows of the observation lounge, Captain Jean-Luc Picard watched them go to Warp a few minutes later, on their way home.

“A most significant encounter, Number One,” he said to his executive officer, and William Riker nodded in agreement.

“You reached a breakthrough, sir. As far as we know, this was the first successful attempt at communication with the Tamarians, not only from side of the Federation but by any other people who’ve ever met them. You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am, Number One,” Picard replied in a somewhat melancholy tone. “I just wish a good man wouldn’t have to die before we’d actually come to an understanding.”

“He knew the risks,” Riker said. “Better than you, sir; better than any of us. Clearly, he found the final results worth such risks. We might not understand why, but…”

“I do understand, actually,” Picard smiled tiredly. “That doesn’t make the loss any smaller, though. Especially after all the losses caused by the Klingon civil war.”

“We were fortunate it ended so quickly,” Riker nodded soberly. “It could have easily escalated into a war that would spread all across the Beta Quadrant like wildfire. Klingon conflicts tend to do that.”

“Especially if the Romulans are involved,” Picard finished for him. “A shame that our _friend_ , Praetor tr’Khellian cannot increase his influence. But his plans are for the long run and he wouldn’t endanger them for any immediate advantages. Romulans are a patient people.”

“And they can afford to take their time… just like Vulcans,” Riker said grimly. “I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of Commander Sela. We’ll meet her again, in the not too distant future.”

“Undoubtedly,” Picard turned away from the window and squared his shoulders. “Do we have any new orders yet, Number One?”

“Aye, sir,” Riker handed him a PADD. “We’ve been assigned the task of bringing supplies to an archaeological expedition that’s working on a desert planet named Bolaxnu 7, led by a certain Dr Annette Boudreau.” he shook his head. “Is Starfleet Command aware of the fact that we aren’t really a cargo vessel? Isn’t it a bit excessive to assign such a mundane task to Starfleet’s flagship?”

Picard gave him a dryly amused look.

“Do you know where Bolaxnu 7 is located, Will?” the executive officer shook his head. “Mid-way between Federation and Ferengi territory.”

“Oh,” Riker said intelligently as realization hit. Picard nodded.

“Indeed. We are the ship with the most first-hand experience in dealing with the Ferengi; I presume we’re supposed to evacuate the entire expedition if we deem the situation too dangerous.”

“What the hell are they doing so far out of the Federation’s backyard anyway?” Riker asked.

Picard shrugged. “I don’t know, Number One. But I do know Dr Boudreau. She’s a name-worthy archaeologist who’s been focusing her efforts on the Faran Empire for the last fifteen years or so.”

“The Faran Empire?” Riker repeated with a frown. “I can’t remember ever having heard about it.”

Picard, who had a strong personal interest in archaeology, shrugged again.

“Why would you have? It was never a major galactic power – not a military one anyway, although its influence used to extend over a great number of sectors in their area of space. I know very little about it myself – my personal interest has always been the Kurlan culture – but I’m certain that Mr Data will provide us with sufficient information about the Faran Empire as well as about Bolaxnu 7 and Dr Boudreau’s expedition.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“The Faran Empire was a major economical power in a so far largely uncharted area that lies between Federation and Ferengi territory,” Data explained on the impromptu staff meeting forty minutes later. “It existed for almost thirteen thousand years – the exact length of its existence is still unknown, as the source material is both contradictional and imprecise.”

“What source material?” Riker interrupted.

“So far, the only information has been gained from the Annals of the Faran Emperors,” Data replied. “However, those only exist in translation – in Deltan and Athosian, mostly – and it is hard to tell how much of what they contain is true and how much is simple propaganda.”

“What do you mean with propaganda?” LaForge asked.

“They describe their reign as an era of peaceful extension, flourishing trade with their neighbours and cultivation of art; all kinds of art,” Data answered. “However, as the legendary capital planet of the Empire, Izul, has not been found yet, those statements could not been confirmed so far. The rare funds on colony words are merely utilitarian buildings that show no particular artwork; it was either not suited to survive for an extended period of time or they were not allowed to be displayed outside of Izul itself.”

“Interesting,” commented Counselor Troi. “Is it known what caused the demise of the Faran Empire?”

Data shook his head. “No. The only known fact is that the Empire fell into an abrupt and mysterious collapse over eight thousand year ago. Again, that date is mainly conjecture,” he added. “Despite the size of the Empire, very few outsiders had ever had contact to it, and with the loss of the capital planet all reliable information seems to be lost as well.”

“You mean the Empire mostly consisted of colonies populated by the Faran themselves?” Dr Crusher tried to clarify.

Data nodded. “Exactly, Doctor. There are reflections to a more numerous subspecies that appears to have been sent to the colony words; and a group called the Kakiri Warriors that might or might not have been of the actual Faran people, but it is all more than a little vague, unfortunately.”

“Understandable, though,” Picard supplied. “If the Annals were meant for the use of the Emperors themselves, there was no need to go into great detail about something they already knew.”

“Correct, Captain,” the android said. “The mystery about the Faran Empire has been the interest of Federation archaeologists for a long time. Andorians, in particular, have been greatly motivated to rediscover the famed Faran art. Excavations are going on on a number of identified colony worlds; however, Bolaxnu 7 is the one at the greatest distance from Federation territory, which makes it necessary to provide the expedition with supplies, as there are no inhabited planets within reach where they could get anything they may need.”

“Is there anything that would be elevating this mission above the mundane?” Counselor Troi asked. “Beyond the fact that it is being led by Dr Boudreau, that is?”

“You know Dr Boudreau?” Picard looked at her in surprise.

Troi shook her head. “No; but I’ve looked her up in the Federation’s archaeological database and realized that she’s considered the highest authority in this particular area,” she smiled at Picard. “I understand that the two of you have known each other for a long time, Captain.”

Picard nodded. “Since university, actually. We were both students of Professor Richard Galen, before I’d decide to join Starfleet.”

“Professor Galen? The one who’s spent the last decades attempting to confirm the bold theory that numerous humanoid species in the galaxy had a common genetic heritage?” Dr Crusher whistled. “I met him on a conference, a few years ago; he’s quite extraordinary.”

“That he is,” Picard agreed. “I heard that he’d spent all these years gathering information from at least nineteen planets across the quadrant in an effort to confirm this theory.”

“Has he managed to do so?” Riker asked doubtfully.

“I don’t know, Number One,” Picard shrugged. “He was very disappointed when I chose a career in Starfleet instead of one in archaeology and we haven’t really spoken ever since. All I know about his work is from hearsay – and from his publications, of course.”

“Do you think that Dr Boudreau is trying to prove the same theory?” Dr Crusher guessed.

Picard shook his head. “No; Annette has always been exclusively interested in the Faran Empire. It had been a childhood dream of hers to find Izul before everyone else.”

“And she apparently succeeded,” Data said. Or, at least, she seems to believe so. Her latest report to the Archaeology Council of the Federation announces that she has discovered a lost city on Bolaxnu 7 which, in her opinion, indicates that the planet actually _is_ Izul.”

For a moment everyone was stunned to silence. As usual, Riker recovered from his surprise first.

“Do you think she’s right, Captain?” he asked.

“It is, at the very least, _possible_ ,” Picard allowed. “The location of the planet is such that it could be considered as a possible candidate. However, to answer that question for certain, we’ll need more data. A great deal more.”

He looked at the android. “Mr Data, I want you to find out everything there is currently known about the Faran Empire; and not just the few confirmed facts. Everything: rumours, gossip, wild theories, no matter how obscure. I want to know what we might be facing when we arrive at Bolaxnu 7.”

“Understood, Captain.”

“Mr LaForge, what is our ETA?”

“By maximum travelling velocity approximately four days and sixteen hours, Captain,” the chief engineer replied. “Unless you want me to push the engines a bit, that is.”

Picard shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary. If the planet is indeed Izul, it’s been there over eight thousand years undisturbed. It can wait a few more days. I’d prefer to make myself familiar with the source material before we arrive. Dismissed.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Geordi LaForge _did_ push his engines just a little bit, and so the _Enterprise_ arrived at Bolaxnu 7 in a little under four days.

“It is a desert planet of the Class G,” Data reported on the last staff meeting before the away team would beam down, “with a silicate surface, and a thin oxidizing atmosphere. Quite similar to Rigel 12, actually, but with five per cent less planetary mass. The planet’s core is currently inactive due to its age, but there still is some water under the surface – not enough to support organic life, though.” 

“Do you mean it can’t support life _now_ or that it was never capable of doing so?” Dr Crusher asked.

“”On the contrary, doctor,” the android said. “The presence of dry river beds proves that the planet was once more than well suited to support life. Apparently, it even had oceans at some point. Whether it was natural aging that changed the conditions or some cosmic phenomenon is currently unknown, though.”

“What about mineral resources?” Worf asked. “Could it have been used as a mining planet?”

“Sensor readings indicate the former presence of large deposits of raw dilithium,” Data replied. “However, those deposits have been depleted millennia ago. It is, geologically seen, a rather old planet and largely useless, save for research purposes.”

“Any sign of the lost city that Dr Boudreau discovered?” Picard asked. 

The android nodded.

“Yes, Captain. There is a dense, intricate network of subterranean tunnels and caves, at the very least twenty-eight levels deep. Due to the presence of certain rare ores in the rock our sensors cannot penetrate the structure any deeper, but I assume that there might be further levels beneath the ones we can read.”

“You mean the whole city is under the earth?” Riker clarified.

The android nodded again.

“The only surface structures are a pair of monoliths that, according to Dr Boudreau’s report, create the actual entrance into the city… some kind of passage, it is said.”

Riker pulled a face. “I don’t like the sound of that. With your permission, Captain, I’d like to take both Data and Geordi with me. Just in case there’s some kind of unknown technology at work. I wouldn’t like to walk into a trap.”

“Permission granted,” Picard said, “although I don’t think that Annette Boudreau would have any hidden agenda. She lives solely for her work and has little to no other personal interests.”

“I don’t doubt that, sir; but she might not know what sort of traps the inhabitants of this planet might have left behind.”

“The possibility of any of the technology still working is less than ten per cent, Commander,” Data said. “This planet has been uninhibited for at least 7.872 thousand years. Of course, this is only a rough estimate,” he added apologetically.

“Of course,” Picard suppressed a smile. “Very well, Number One. Put together an away team while Ensign Brooks puts together the supply modules and Chief O’Brien prepares the cargo transporter unit on Deck 4. In the meantime, I’ll contact the expedition and have a little chat with an old friend.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Less than twenty minutes later the away team, consisting of Riker, Data, LaForge, Worf, Dr Selar and medical technician Simon Tarses met in Transporter Room 3, ready to beam down to the surface.

“Where is Chief O’Brien?” asked Riker from the young, dark-skinned woman standing behind the transporter console. 

She was new, came aboard during the regular crew rotation schedule from Starbase 260, shortly before the Klingon civil war would break lose. Hubble or Hubbell or something like that was her name, Riker couldn’t quite remember at the moment.

“Still busy with the supply modules in the cargo transporter,” the transporter technician replied. “There’s some highly sensitive stuff in those modules, sir; and the cargo transporter units are primarily designed for operation at molecular resolution. Which is sufficient for standard cargo use but one needs to be careful with certain chemicals and sophisticated equipment.”

That was considerably more information than Riker actually needed, and the delay made him slightly irritated.

“Have you spent much time in Commander Data’s company, Ensign…”

“Hubbell, sir,” both the transporter technician and the android stared at him in mild bewilderment, but he decided not to start explaining himself.

“Are we ready?” he asked the rest of the away team instead.

“Aye, sir,” they chorused, taking up positions on the transporter platform. Riker took the one left for him in the front.

“Energize,” he said, and a moment later he felt the brief disorientation as the transporter beam caught him and carried him away.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The world upon the surface of which they were set down was incredible. There was no other word to describe it. A desert long void of life, for sure, but of grim, gripping beauty nonetheless.

The rocky surface, covered with boulders of various sizes, from that of a man’s fist to that of a shuttlecraft, mixed with rough sand just this side of gravel, had a distant reminiscence of Mars Solis before the terraforming, but the ruling shade was closer to rose and purple than true red. And it was bathed in mixed light of red-gold and silver.

They were standing in the bottom of a wide, shallow valley – presumably a dried-out river bed – that was framed by monolithic rock formations that varied widely in shape and shade. The twin monoliths on their right were supposedly the ones that marked the passage to the lost city, although nothing of that could be detected by the naked eye – or by tricorder readings, for that matter.

Far above and ahead of them, almost touching the horizon, hung Bolaxnu 8: a huge, ringed planet, gleaming and semi-transparent like quicksilver. It seemed impossible that the incredible mass of the gas giant had not yet torn Bolaxnu 7 to pieces; but perhaps it had messed up its smaller neighbour’s orbit, turning a once flourishing world into a deadly desert in the process.

A broad sward of white clouds – in truth a sward of densely set, bright stars, as the planet didn’t have enough surface water left to produce actual clouds – appeared to curl upwards, linking itself through the ring of the gas giant; in its downward curve sat Bolaxnu, the central star of the system: a small yet bright ball of reddish light, compared with the cold gleaming of the ringed planet. Riker was fairly certain that Bolaxnu 7 knew no darkness. Even at nighttime, the silver light of its giant neighbour would provide enough illumination to make any artificial means unnecessary.

“Are the two planets in Trojan orbit?” he asked, and Data nodded.

“Yes, Commander. However, my calculations show that this might not have always been the case. It is more likely that the gravitational pull of the gas giant slowly, gradually modified the orbit of Bolaxnu 7, until it finally got caught in this constellation; which probably took ten millennia or longer. Stellar Cartography would enjoy making more accurate calculations.”

“I’m sure they will,” Riker answered dryly. “But we have more urgent matters to deal with right now. Let’s find the actual entrance, shall we?”

They walked up to the twin monoliths that were said to mark the entrance to the subterranean city and now, from close up, they could see that these were different from the natural rock formations seaming the valley. Made of the same amber rock, yet clearly by artificial means, they were as tall as the towers of As’toroken, their gleaming surface unmarred by weather and any other environmental effects, despite the fact that the planet had been abandoned for millennia.

There was also no sign of any gate or doorway on either of them.

“If this is the entrance, I can’t see how it’s supposed to work,” muttered Riker. ”There’s nothing and nobody here.”

“That is not entirely correct, Commander,” Dr Selar took out her medical tricorder to scan for life signs. “Logic dictates that the entrance of the city must be well hidden; presumably even cloaked.”

“Perhaps it can only be opened from the inside,” suggested Ensign Tarses.

He was a young man, barely out of the Academy, with a constantly worried expression on his fresh face – which most people found vaguely confusing, as he’d inherited the pointed ears of his Vulcan grandparent.

“That is unlikely, Ensign,” Data replied. “If the entrance could not be opened from the outside, the expedition would never have found it in the first place.”

“Perhaps the opening mechanism was damaged, yet they’ve managed to repair it,” suggested LaForge. “My VISOR can still pick up traces of residual energy between the two monoliths – in fact, it is building up as we speak.”

“He’s right,” Worf consulted his tricorder. “Commander, we should back off a bit, just in case.”

“I don’t think our own people would mean us any harm, Mr Worf,” Riker said. “They’re expecting us, after all; and the supplies we bring them.”

“Nonetheless, we might be dealing with unknown technology here,” Dr Selar supported the Klingon. “Logically, we should apply safety measures.”

She made a couple of demonstrative steps backward and Ensign Tarses followed her obediently.

In the meantime the energy was now visibly building up between the twin monoliths. It crackled on the smooth surface of the amber rock, its sizzling arches meeting in the exact middle, intertwining and forming the outline of a tall, arched gateway. In the next moment, however, it was gone, and between the monoliths stood the shapes of two women, seemingly small and fragile compared with their surroundings.

One of them was clearly an Andorian: tall and willowy for one of her race, with delicate facial features and an almost swan-like carriage in the neck of shoulders. Her more silvery skin tone and the flimsy, stalk-like antennae rising from the front parietal lobes unmistakably identified her as a member of the _Thalish_ minority. 

Riker found her vaguely familiar but at first he couldn’t remember where from – until the wide lilac eyes gave her away; a rare colour, even among the _Thalish_. It was Sessethantis zh’Cheen, not only a celebrated artisan of Andor but also a member of the hereditary gentry. Granted, the once ruling families had lost their right to form the Andorian government some five centuries previously, but there were still many who acknowledged the position of such families and pained their descendants honour. 

Sessethantis zh’Cheen would have been the First Princess of one such family a thousand years ago and was treated accordingly, both by her own people and the representatives of the Federation. She accepted it as her due.

Sometimes being the son – even the _estranged_ son – of a Federation diplomat came in handy. Riker could now remember having met her on Betazed, quite a few years ago; even through now she was wearing a simple and practical _ceara_ , the traditional garb of a _zhen_ , the only one of the four Andorian genders that was capable of bearing children, instead of the usual formal robes. She was clearly here to work, not in any political function.

“ _Zha’_ Cheen,” Riker said, using the accepted polite form of address, “it is nice to meet you again. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, of all places.”

“The artwork discovered at this excavation is quite extraordinary,” she replied in a melodious, slightly accented voice that was much softer than that of the average Andorian’s. “As the current deacon of the Art Academy, I was the most obvious choice,” those wide, lilac eyes narrowed. “Do I know you, Commander?”

Riker shook his head. “It is doubtful that you’d remember me, _Zha’_ Cheen, but we’ve met before. On Betazed, when the newest building of their Art Academy was opened.”

Her antennae wiggled in the Andorian equivalent of a nod.

“I do remember now. You were with the family of Ambassador Troi; but you looked different then. This… facial hair changes your appearance very much.”

“So I am frequently told,” Riker grinned; then he turned to the other woman who’d been listening to them quietly. “I’m Commander William Riker, First Officer of the _Enterprise_. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied, reaching out with a small, dark, fine-boned hand like a bird’s claw. “I am Dr Boudreau, leader of this expedition. How’s Jean-Luc doing?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For a moment Riker was stunned with surprise. He hadn’t looked up Dr Annette Boudreau in advance, but he’d expected somebody of Picard’s age and mannerism. The two had studied together and been friends ever since, after all.

What he saw instead was a small, dark-skinned woman of regal posture who seemed to be in her late seventies or early eighties. Her short-cropped, iron-grey hair famed her face like a wreath of silver frames, her almond-shaped, dark eyes mirrored a great deal of experience and a lot of pain and one could have cut glass with her cheekbones. She barely reached to Riker’s shoulder and yet had such a strong, commanding presence that the executive officer of the _Enterprise_ unconsciously snapped to attention under her piercing glare and had to fight the urge to kiss that fragile old hand with the deepest respect.

In her youth she must have been absolutely stunning. The ashes of a once great beauty, long burned away by the hardships of a long life, were still visible in her proud, imperious face. In a different place and time, she could have been a queen… a priestess… a goddess. Here and now she was a scientist – still with the same aura.

“Welcome to Bolaxnu 7, Commander,” she continued in her deep, smoky voice; she didn’t seem to mind that he had yet to answer her question about Picard’s well-being. “Would you mind to introduce the others?”

Riker hurriedly apologized for his lack of manners and introduced his colleagues, one by one. When he named Dr Selar, the eyes of Dr Boudreau lit up at once.

“A doctor, good,” she said in obvious relief. “One of my colleagues, Dr Roark, was recently injured, and he doesn’t seem to be getting better. We’re all concerned about him.” 

“What happened?” the Vulcan asked with professional interest.

“Not all of the tunnels are safe,” explained Dr Boudreau. “The deeper levels have a tendency to collapse; the floors can break through here and there. Dr Roark was working in one of the newly opened caves and fell into a hidden pit, some thirty feet deep… or more. He broke several bones and suffered a heavy concussion. Unfortunately, our bone-knitting device has stopped working half a year ago. All we’ve got are some medical tricorders and a dermal regenerator.”

“It’s high time, then, that we get your supplies here,” Riker touched his com badge. “Riker to Cargo Transporter Unit 4.”

“O’Brien here,” the voice of the _Enterprise_ ’s transporter chief replied.

“You can beam down the supplies now, Mr O’Brien,” Riker told him. “Log on to our communicators and put them down anywhere in a two-metre-radius.”

“Aye, sir,” the good-natured Irishman acknowledged his orders. “Energizing in five-four-three-two-one… transfer complete!”

In the next moment the five large supply modules materialized less than a metre from their position. Based on the relieved smile of Dr Boudreau with which she checked the inventory lists, the expedition must have run out of just about everything during the last year.

“We’ve been working here for more than three years by now,” she explained, “and supply runs have been few and far between. We’re glad that Thantis has joined us half a year ago; having a celebrity in our rows makes it a lot easier to get at least the basic necessities. Without her, we might have had to cut our work short here.”

“That would have been a shame,” Riker said. “Especially now that you’ve finally found the lost capitol of Izul.”

“Well, where that is concerned,” Dr Boudreau seemed more than just a little uncomfortable, “my proclamations may have been premature.”

Data, having taken in their surroundings both visually and via tricorder, came back just in time to catch the tail end of their conversation.

“What do you mean with _premature_ , doctor?” he asked in surprise.

Dr Boudreau shrugged elegantly.

“I may have been wrong,” she admitted with obvious reluctance.

Riker stared at her in shock. “You gotta be kidding, doctor!”

“Afraid not,” she replied in a tight voice; then she turned away. “If you’ll excuse me, Commander, I must oversee the transfer of the supplies. Thantis cans how you around in the meantime.”

Riker found this sudden interruption a little odd but he couldn’t deny that the transfer of supplies was the most important thing – at least for the expedition members.

“Of course, doctor,” he said. “Commander Data and Lieutenant Worf will help you with the supplies, while Dr Selar and Ensign Tarses look after your injured man. We can discuss the issue of Izul later.”

“What am I supposed to do, sir?” LaForge asked.

“Keep a close eye on any bit of technology you may discover,” Riker ordered in a low voice. “This site to site transporter seems intriguing. Not something we could use aboard a starship, of course, but certain mining colonies, especially the ones with a closed environment, might show interest, if we can figure out how it works.”

“I doubt that it would prove more practical than anything the Federation already has,” the Andorian commented. “Besides, it is ancient. No; the true wonders of this city, whether it is the lost capital of Izul or not, lie under the surface.”

“From an artisan’s point of view, I presume,” Riker grinned.

Zh’Chen’s antennae turned towards each other in a clear sign of amusement.

“Is there any other one, Commander? Follow me, and I shall show you wonders no man has ever seen before.”

“Is the gateway accessible from the outside, too?” LaForge asked.

“Of course,” replied zh’Cheen. “As far as we can tell, this was a public entrance, open for everyone, save for emergencies. The inhabitants of this planet – whoever they might have been – had realized that the surface will become inhabitable in the long run soon enough to move their civilization underground. Dr Roark estimated that they must have worked on it for centuries – millennia perhaps – delving deeper and deeper in each new generation. We’ve barely begun to scratch the surface.”

She led them to a slab of smooth, amber stone that had been worked seamlessly into the rocky floor of the valley, in the exact middle between the twin monoliths. It was large enough for six people to stand on it.

“This is the local equivalent of a transporter platform,” she explained. “We still haven’t figured out what triggers the actual process; or whether it can be used in other directions than just in and out. Annette says they haven’t found similar platforms within the city, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Perhaps…”

Whatever else she intended to say, it was chopped off by the transporter effect that caught them unexpectedly and without warning.


	2. Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visually the underground city is based on various stations of the Stockholm metro. Some of the names come from the same place.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 02 – WONDERLAND**

The cavernous room into which the transporter released them was… well, like nothing else they’d ever seen before. The closest resemblance would have been the central hall of a spaceport – only with a unique, artistic, utterly alien flair.

And, of course, without the usual masses hurrying from one terminal to another platform and back.

The walls around them were sculpted as if they were some sort of huge, petrified spruce forest, the boughs of which stretched to meet above one’s head, building a domed ceiling, representing all imaginable hues of green, from turquoise to almost grey. Bouquets of flowers and fruits were scattered all over them, in the most brilliant yellows and ambers.

At regular intervals old-fashioned escalators led to a great number of lower levels; at least that was what they looked like. Only that they seemed to be made of some unknown material that could stream like water and yet turned solid again as soon as the escalator stopped. LaForge was mildly shocked seeing that. Riker was not.

“It’s a rarely seen technology but not unheard of,” he explained. “It’s said that the Antosians have developed it and still use it on their homeworld.”

“The Antosians are a truly ancient race,” Dr Selar added. “Their known history goes back as far as two hundred thousand standard years.”

The Andorian wiggled her antennae in agreement. “That is true. They are the oldest intelligent species that still kept their physical form.”

“Which is highly illogical,” Dr Selar commented. “Why would anyone accept the limitations of a physical body when they could exist as pure energy?”

The antennae of zh’Cheen turned towards each other in the Andorian gesture of amusement.

“I asked Ambassador Llire Ner Nabu the same question. She said that having a physical body would be _fun_ , and they wouldn’t see why they should give up the chance to enjoy _that_. Especially as they’ve developed the technique of cellular metamorphosis and therefore can change their appearance at will. Remarkable people, the Antosians,” she added thoughtfully.

Geordi LaForge scanned his surroundings with the help of his VISOR.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But this place definitely isn’t even half as old as the Antosian culture. This technology, based on the level of entropy it displays, can’t be any older than forty thousand years, give or take a couple of centuries.”

“Which is still pretty old, compared with _our_ history,” Riker said, taking a look around. “What is this place anyway? It looks like some kind of dispatch centre.”

“That is exactly what it is,” zh’Cheen led them to a huge, floor-to-ceiling display screen and activated it with a simple touch.

A literal maze of caves, tunnels, stairways and escalator connections appeared on the screen in a three-dimensional holographic image, the levels and knots marked in a script that seemed vaguely familiar, although Riker couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“The technology is remarkably redundant,” the Andorian continued, “despite the fact that it is – or, at least, originally _was_ – based on geothermic energy, and the planet is largely geologically inactive now.”

“They must have found a different energy source,” LaForge guessed.

Zh’Cheen wiggled her antennae. “That’s what Dr Roark assumes, too. Which is why he’d been searching for possible other energy sources in the lowest, newest levels before he had his accident.”

She changed the display, so that it showed an imaginary outside view of the whole complex.

“As you can see, the city has a pyramidal layout. The builders expanded both vertically and horizontally. The oldest levels are the smallest and lie closest to the surface. The deeper it goes, the wider and technically more advanced the city gets.”

“It seems huge,” LaForge said and once again, the Andorian wiggled her antennae in agreement.

“According to our current estimate, it had between a hundred and a hundred and ten levels and must have housed twenty to twenty-two million inhabitants at its peak. Strangely enough, the newest levels that we’d been able to find show the earliest signs of abandonment. As if the culture would have flagged and the inhabitants had retreated to the older, more primitive parts of the city as their numbers dwindled.”

“That would make sense, assuming the energy resources were running off and they could no longer operate the parts that were most advanced and therefore most energy-consuming,” Riker suggested.

“Perhaps,” zh’Cheen replied with the Andorian equivalent of a shrug. “I’m here to study the artwork. But the geologists of the expedition say that Bolaxnu 7 must once have been rich on water; almost as rich as Earth, in fact. However, when the gas giant’s gravity disturbed its orbit, bringing it closer to its sun, the oceans began to dry up and the planet slowly turned into a desert. Perhaps the inhabitants simply couldn’t adapt to the environmental changes and eventually fell back into a technically primitive state.”

“Even those still had to be fairly advanced,” LaForge commented, “seeing as the transporter has clearly dispatched the members of the Away Team to different locations simultaneously.”

“It does that,” zh’Cheen agreed. “We still don’t know _how_ , though. The most promising theory would be that of telepathic circuitry that reacts to sentient brainwaves, but so far the scientists haven’t found any proof for it. They say this technology is unlike anything they’ve ever encountered before.”

“Are the transporters the only way to get from one place to another?” LaForge asked.

Zh’Cheen wriggled her antennae in the Andorian equivalent of shaking one’s head.

“Oh, no! There’s actually a network of antigrav transport cars travelling below the ceiling... at least on the blue level that the expedition currently occupies. The nearest access point is just down those escalators. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They rode the escalators that basically floated them down like some kind of slow water slide – though, according to zh’Cheen, the speed could be changed once one had gained enough experience in using them – to the blue level, which was roughly twenty feet deeper. It had clearly been named after its blue-painted walls, in a stylized pattern of different hues that repeated itself until one’s eyes started watering . Thin veneers of silvery ore, interspersed with small white gems or crystals, eased the monotony.

The floor was covered with the same silvery metal; smooth, but not so that one would slip. The ceiling was left in its natural rocky state, save for the parallel lines of antigrav tracks running directly beneath it. At both ends of the platform twin escalators spiralled up like spun glass, seeming supremely elegant yet very fragile at the same time.

“Don’t worry,” zh’Cheen said. ”They are sturdier than they look.”

She stepped onto the frozen end of the escalator, which became semi-liquid at once and began to float her upwards. The _Enterprise_ officers followed her – after a moment of hesitation.

Reaching the upper end of the escalator, she pressed her palm against a blinking hexagonal surface, presumably summoning the transport car. Less than thirty seconds later something resembling an oversized photon torpedo arrived: sleek, cylindrical, silver-hued and with no visible opening on its smooth surface.

Zh’Cheen simply touched it, and an entrance opened by part of the metallic surface... well, _melting away_ would have been the closest expression to describe it. Zh’Cheen’s antennae turned towards each other in amusement, seeing the concerned faces of her human companions.

“I promise you, it’s absolutely safe,” she said.

She stepped in, followed by the two humans and the Vulcan doctor. In the inside, the transport car looked like some lush, old-fashioned train compartments from Earth’s 19th century. The low, comfortable seats running in a U-shape around its sides were stuffed and covered with something akin to red velvet. A control panel was no-where to be seen, but zh’Cheen seemed confident enough about the reliability of the system.

“The car stops automatically at each contact point,” she explained. “We’ll check on the distribution of the supplies first. Then I’ll show you one of the excavation sites. Trust me, it will be worth your time; it’s one of the oldest parts of the city and not at all like the rest of it.”

Expressing blatant disinterest in the artwork the Andorian was clearly enthusiastic about (even if it would have been the plain truth) would have been rude, so the _Enterprise_ officers accepted their fate. They travelled along five stops – or contact points as zh’Cheen had called them – and got out of the car at the sixth, arriving at what seemed another dispatch centre.

It was a very large cave, its walls covered in a vibrantly coloured, abstract harlequin design with outstanding ceiling artwork, separated into smaller rooms by similarly patterned, translucent glass walls. Or what counted as glass for this place anyway.

In the central room was a circular platform, apparently designed to accept cargo transports from the surface, as the supply modules beamed down from the _Enterprise_ were standing on it. About a dozen people of different races – humans, dark-skinned native Centaurians, an Andorian, a Vulcan and even a Tellarite – were busily offloading the necessities and distributing them to the many places where they were needed. A system of rolling bands, working on the same principle as the escalators, was used for moving the heavier pieces, while Data and Worf were overseeing the whole process.

“Where is Dr Boudreau?” Riker asked in surprise. “She wanted to supervise the transfer of supplies, didn’t she?”

Worf shrugged his massive shoulders, muttering something about women and their lack of reliability, which everyone ignored with practiced ease. The Klingon was a sour person by his very nature and always found a reason to grumble. It was easier to pretend one hadn’t heard him than deal with his rants.

“She didn’t come here, after all,” Data explained readily. „She might have been called away by some new discovery. If this is, in fact, the lost capital of Izul, it could, theoretically, provide some tantalizing information pertaining to Ferengi culture.”

“To _Ferengi_ culture?” Riker echoed in surprise. “How that?”

“According to the information Commander Ransom has gained from certain Ferengi businesspeople on Starbase 80, a distant colony of the Faran Empire, which was stranded after the Empire had collapsed, was the Ferengi homeworld,” Data explained. “In the Annals of the Faran emperors it was known as _Bunol_. It seems that when they became independent, the Ferengi renamed their planet; or gave it back its indigenous name, in any case. Or rather _names_. To the current day, it is called _Ferengar_ by a minority living in exile, yet _Ferenginar_ by the vast majority that is still allowed to have access to it. Interestingly enough...”

“Data!” Riker interrupted the android before he could have launched into the various theories regarding to the still largely unknown ancient Ferengi history. “Dr Boudreau claims that she may have been wrong in making the announcement that this would be Izul in the first place.”

The android blinked in surprise. “Does she? Interesting. I would think that if this planet is, in fact, Izul, that would explain the vexed interest of the Ferengi in it.”

“They, too, could be wrong,” LaForge pointed out.

“That is possible, of course,” Data allowed. "It would be too much of a coincidence, however.”

“Could Dr Boudreau be deliberately misleading us?” Riker asked the Andorian.

Zh’Cheen made that thing with her antennae again that even other races had come to recognize as the equivalent of a shrug.

“She could be, of course,” she admitted. “In theory, at least. I don’t see _why_ she would do so, though. This is the discovery of her life; something she had been working towards for decades.”

“Which could be the very reason why she would want to keep it from falling into Ferengi hands and being taken apart and sold to the highest bidder for profit,” Selar pointed out logically.

“True,” Riker allowed. „I still believe that there’s more behind it, though.”

The Andorian wiggled her antennae indifferently. “That, of course, is possible. I am but a fleeting acquaintance of Dr Boudreau, so I cannot be certain of her motivation. You can discuss it with her in person as soon as we have finished the tour. Come now; we have to cross _Solna Centre_ to reach the newest excavation sites, and that is a long way down.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
_Solna Centre_ turned out to be something akin to the administrative area of the underground city and lay four levels below Blue. It was a cavernous place with a bright red ceiling that seemed to weigh down heavily on the lengthy archives – assuming that they _were_ archives, of course. 

The walls depicted a spruce forest that was at least a mile long... or, at least, some long-extinct trees that looked very much like spruces. The central room was the only exception; it had an amazing, floor-to-ceiling star-map covering one of its walls. 

“According to the team’s scientist its shows the whole expanse of the Faran Empire,” zh’Cheen explained. “ _Including_ the planet we know as Ferenginar.”

The network of transport cars didn’t reach this level, and what other transportation system the long dead inhabitants of the still nameless city might have used, the expedition hadn’t found yet. LaForge’s guess was site-to-site transporters, but even he admitted that it was merely conjunction. His VISOR didn’t pick up any energy readings that would support the theory.

“Of course, the energy source might be depleted by now,” he admitted, somewhat unhappily.

Whatever the reason might have been, they had to use the escalators – the only piece of technology that seemed to be n perfect working order on every new level the expedition would open up. Which, as LaForge mentioned, wasn’t a small feat for ten thousand years old technology.

From _Solna Centre_ they travelled downwards another twenty levels or so (Riker lost count at some point), each of them decorated differently, but usually in very bright, almost garish colours that made the average human eye water in pain. The inhabitants also seemed to have had a particular fondness for geometrical patterns and stripes that made the beholder positively dizzy after a while.

Finally, when the _Enterprise_ officers believed to be hopelessly lost, they reached their destination. As zh’Cheen had promised, this level was very different from the others. It had the same silver-hued metal floor, but the walls were left in their natural rocky condition and decorated with neo-primitive paintings of bizarre animals; they mostly resembled of hard-shelled creatures like tortoises and armadillos, some even of smaller dinosaurs.

Surprisingly enough, the network of antigrav cars resurfaced here – well, sort of. There were the tracks right beneath the ceiling, but no cars and no spiral escalators leading up to them.

“I thought the lower levels were the newer ones,” Riker commented. "Yet this place seems older than the rest.”

“In a manner, it is,” the Andorian replied. “The inhabitants have apparently arranged this level as a museum of some sort. They brought here everything left from their ancient past.”

“And a rich past it seems to have been,” one of the human archaeologists, who were working in the cave, commented with obvious respect. ”Take a look around you: this is what the Acropolis must have looked like before its complete restoration.”

Dr Selar raised a supremely Vulcan eyebrow.

“To my – admittedly somewhat limited – knowledge of old Terran archaeological sites, the Acropolis stood on a _hill_ ,” she said dryly. ”This is a _cave_. I fail to notice any similarities.”

“I meant the age and the state of the artefacts, not their position,” the man rolled his eyes at so much Vulcan single-mindedness.

The cave was indeed in a great deal of disarray. Nature had begun to re-claim it, as – unlike on the other levels – there hadn’t been any artificial means to keep it in a clean and sterile state. Fluorescent moss had crept in and now partially covered the balustrade, the broken, ancient pillars and the stone sculptures that were standing or lying around in no particular order. Even the traces of a waterfall, long dried up by now, could be discovered.

The sculptures all had the same motifs. They depicted short, bipedal creatures in flying robes, with oversized, bulbous heads and enormous ear shells that formed an unbroken semi-circle with the prominent eyebrow ridges, reaching down to the top of the chin, which was long enough to touch the chest. The finer features had been destroyed by the time gone by and the algae that had grown thick over them, but the facial structure seemed familiar nonetheless.

“Ferengi?” Dr Selar asked a little uncertainly, but the archaeologist shook his head.

“That was our first guess, too, but no; the skull is differently shaped. And unless it is an exaggerated depiction, the brain mass would be significantly larger. According to Dr Boudreau, these people stood at a considerably higher level of evolution than the Ferengi would have ten thousand years ago. Like humans and chimpanzees – only even more so. _If_ the sculptures are anatomically correct, that is.”

“Why would anyone want to make anatomically incorrect sculptures?” Dr Selar frowned; or what counted as a frown for Vulcans. It was all in the eyes, really; and in that tiny little wrinkle between those slanted eyebrows.

The archaeologist shrugged. ”Idealization, religious motivation, new trends in art forms or simply trying to make the object look ridiculous – take your pick. We still don’t know enough about the people who lived here to make an educated guess.”

“Scientific discoveries are the result of diligent research and well-proved theories, not of guesses, no matter how ‘educated’ they might be,” Dr Selar commented dryly.

The archaeologist ignored her. He was clearly used to Vulcans and had learned the hard way how to pick his battles.

“At least the animal depictions are fairly accurate,” Riker said, eyeing the head of some feline predator protruding from the wall, gargoyle-like. "This here looks a lot like the razor-beasts that supposedly live on the smallest southern continent of Ferenginar.”

“I thought no strangers were allowed to visit Ferenginar,” the archaeologist said, clearly surprised.

Riker nodded. “They aren’t. But I was once guest on a Ferengi merchant ship, and the owner had the skin of one of these creatures as a bedcover. Complete with the prepared head. Apparently, they’re almost extinct; but that doesn’t stop the Ferengi dealing in their hides.”

“The _Rules of Acquisition_ won’t allow _anything_ to get in the way of profit,” the archaeologist commented with a wry grin. Seeing their surprised looks, he rolled his eyes again. “Hey, we’re practically living in their front yard here! You didn’t think they wouldn’t pay us the one or other unannounced visit, did you?”

“Have there been... complications?” Riker asked in concern.

“You mean other than trying to sell us fake artefacts – or genuine ones for horrendous prices?” the archaeologist shook his head. ”Our coexistence has been surprisingly peaceful so far, despite the fact that our leader is a woman who not only dares to leave her home for work but also has the cheek to wear clothes in public,” he grinned. “The first visiting DaiMon nearly became apoplectic; but in the meantime they’ve grown used to our _hew-man_ ways, as they call it.”

“How did Dr Boudreau handle the pressure?” Dr Selar asked with professional interest. ”She is not the youngest as humans go; and it has been my experience that human women do not react well to mysogynic treatment.”

The archaeologist waved off her concern. ”Oh, Annette is one tough cookie; a few idiots won’t unbalance her easily. Although... she has changed in recent times,” he added thoughtfully.

“In what way?” Riker demanded.

The archaeologist scratched his head. “It’s hard to put your finger on it. It’s been so gradual we haven’t even noticed at first. But looking back to the beginning of our work here, it seems to me that she’s become solitary... secretive even. She never joins us for meals anymore, she never laughs. She doesn’t come to the excavations unless expressly asked, and she works insane hours in her office – which she’s moved down to this level, half a year ago; together with her living quarters.”

“Perhaps,” Riker said slowly, “I should have a little chat with Dr Boudreau.”

The archaeologist shrugged. “You’re welcome to try, Commander, but I very much doubt that she’d be willing to talk to _you_. She even refused to contact Captain Picard directly, who is, after all, said to be an old friend of hers.”

“I’ll give it a try nonetheless,” Riker said. “How do I get to her chambers?”

“Go down that corridor on your right,” the archaeologist replied with another shrug. “You can’t miss them; that’s a _cul-de-sac_ that leads right there.”

“Commander,” Dr Selar said quietly. “Are you truly so determined to violate Dr Boudreau’s privacy? She clearly wants to be left alone; we should respect her wish.”

“She also clearly hasn’t been herself lately,” Riker returned. “She might be ill; or she might be a threat. Or both. I need to find out which one.”

“In that case it would be logical for me to accompany you,” the Vulcan pointed out. “I am a doctor; I can find possible signs of a physical or mental illness more easily. And as a Vulcan, my reaction time is considerably shorter than that of a human – should she pose a threat, the likeliness of which is less than ten per cent.”

“No,” Riker said. “I’ll do this myself. I’m experienced enough to deal with one elderly woman, even if she _is_ a threat. Finish the tour, and then meet me at _Solna Centre_. Call Worf and Data to join us there, too. Perhaps Data can gain access to the databases there; assuming there are any databases.”

With that, he turned around and headed towards the corridor the archaeologist had pointed out to him. 

Dr Selar made the very convincing impression of an eyeroll without actually stooping low enough to _make_ the gesture.

“Humans,” she said in a tone that could have frozen over molten lava.

Zh’Cheen wiggled her antennae in amusement.

“ _Male_ humans,” she specified.

Vulcans and Andorians were usually at odds with each other on principle in just about everything; and none of the four Andorian genders were truly male _or_ female. But in this very moment, the two female (or sort-of-female) extraterrestrials found themselves in complete agreement about a certain kind of male, human Starfleet officers.

The overconfident-without-a-true-reason kind Riker appeared to represent.

“Hey, ladies!” LaForge protested, feeling vaguely insulted.

Zh’Cheen bowed to him from the hip, in the stiff Andorian fashion that showed respect.

“Present company excluded, of course, Commander,” she said. “My apologies.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The tunnel the archaeologist had sent Riker to follow had dark green walls and an arched ceiling. The walls were painted with fluorescent sea creatures vaguely resembling of grunions and starfish and small sea mammals that were, nonetheless, nothing like the ones once populating Earth’s oceans.

The paintings were the only source of illumination in the otherwise complete darkness. The floor seemed like frozen, black asphalt, yet it must have been made of the same material as the escalators because as soon as Riker entered the tunnel, it began to move sluggishly under his feet. The technology in this part of the city was either breaking down or still in the wake-up phase after having lain unused for ten millennia.

Fortunately, the trip with the questionable moving floor wasn’t a long one. After half a minute or so, the movement stopped and Riker found himself in front of an open doorway. If there had even been an actual door, it was long gone by now.

He stepped through the doorway, straight into a small, circular room, the semi-translucent, doomed ceiling of which was made up of concentric circles. He could only guess their colour – something light and pale – as the room, like the corridor before, was almost completely dark. Even its true dimensions were hard to guess; less so if there were other doors, leading to other rooms.

The only illumination came from a small, round dais in the exact centre of the room. It was a pale, golden glow, yet not scattered in the room as one would expect but surprisingly bundled and directed right at the small figure sitting on the dais with legs crossed.

It was Dr Boudreau, still wearing that outdated Starfleet uniform from the previous century – a red and black one with a white turtleneck underneath, proving that at some point she must have been a Starfleet officer… _and_ that she was probably a great deal older than she looked. She was holding an item roughly of the size of a melon with both hands.

The pale golden light came from that item, apparently made of some sort of crystal. At first Riker thought it would be directed in twin beams right into the old woman’s eyes, but it wasn’t so. Rather it seemed to be a swath of golden cloud between her face and the artefact; a cloud in which tiny sparks seemed to travel back and forth.

Dr Boudreau seemed to be in a meditative and ecstatic state. Her face was positively glowing from within.

His curiosity piqued, Riker edged closer to get a better look at the object in her hands. It took him two tries, but in the end he succeeded – and was a bit taken aback by the sight. _More_ than just a little taken aback, in fact.

The object Dr Boudreau seemed to… well, to _communicate_ with, for the lack of a better definition, was a crystal skull. And not just any skull; it appeared to have the same strange proportions as the heads of the sculptures at the excavation site.

In spite of the fact that she was clearly mesmerized by it, Dr, Boudreau noticed Riker’s arrival nonetheless… and it obviously displeased her.

“Commander,” she said, without looking in his direction, making Riker wonder how could she know that it was him and not somebody else. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” Riker asked in annoyance. “This room is part of the excavation and should be accessible to everyone. Even to visitors.”

“These are also my private chambers,” she replied, still without as much as a glance in his direction. “And as such, they should only be entered upon invitation. I have _not_ invited you. Please, leave. I am busy.”

“Busy doing _what_?” Riker pressed on. “What is this… _thing_?”

“Merely an artefact, the genuinity of which I’m still trying to prove – or disprove,” she answered. “It’s none of your concern. You should leave and not come back.”

“I don’t think so!” Riker snapped. “Not until you’ve explained what this artefact exactly is. It’s clearly doing _something_ to you.”

“Crystal skulls are symbolic artefacts, appearing in many cultures, including on Earth,” she said dismissively. “The Earth examples had once been thought to be of pre-Columbian origins, found in Mesoamerica. However, upon closer examination they turned out to be fakes, produces in 19th century England, in the wake of the successful trade with falsified pre-Columbian artefacts.”

“ _All_ of them?” Riker asked, disappointed.

“ _Most_ of them,” Dr Boudreau corrected. “A few authentic examples did turn up in the late 22nd century… although not of Earth origin. They were found while the foundation of a new Mars colony was being laid – presumably left behind by visiting extraterrestrials millennia ago.”

“Yes, I remember having heard about it in history class,” Riker said. “Was it ever found out _who_ left them behind?”

No,” she replied simply. “Of course, the discovery led to all sorts of fantastic theories about early contacts with much higher developed alien cultures; especially as back in the 20th century believers of the paranormal claimed that the skulls falsified on Earth would cause visions, cure terminal illnesses and other such nonsense. A then-popular novel of historically unfounded speculation tried the modern legend of crystal skulls with the completion of the Maya calendar _b’ak’tun_ cycle on December 21, 2012, claiming the re-uniting of the thirteen mystical skulls will forestall a catastrophe allegedly predicted or implied by the ending of said calendar.” 

She paused and made a rather un-ladylike snort. “We both know it turned out to be complete nonsense.”

“People actually _believed_ that?” Riker was baffled.

“Oh, yes,” Dr Boudreau still wasn’t looking at him. “Another sensationalist fool attempted to see the skulls as the ultimate proof for Mayan life on Mars; a third one as remains of lost Atlantean civilizations – which we know never existed – and even as prehistoric antigravity clamps, which is, scientifically seen, humbug.”

Finally, she turned to Riker for a moment, her dark eyes now glowing from within like molten gold.

“That is the only explanation I can and will give you, Commander,” she said, her voice gaining an eerie singsong quality. “Please, leave now. I have work to do, and you are breaking my concentration.”

“You don’t appear to be doing any actual work here, Doctor,” Riker sneered. “You’re just sitting here, staring at this skull as if you were hypnotized by it. In fact, I believe that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Your ignorance is only seconded by your hubris, Commander,” she replied icily. “This discussion is finished. You’ll leave my chambers _now_ , and you’ll never return… unless you want to become my new consort. As a rule, I wouldn’t choose somebody this young and belligerent, but these are desperate times.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” 

Riker had nothing against older women; in fact, his very first lasting relationship had been with somebody whose _son_ was five years older than him. Still, by all open-mindedness, he couldn’t imagine getting involved with a centenarian, of all people.

Dr Boudreau dismissed his panicked question with a quick, fluttering flap of one hand.

“Nothing,” she said. “It was but a jest, naturally."

She rose elegantly to put the artefact away to some safe place, but Riker was not ready to give up just yet. For some reason he’d have a hard time to explain later, on the mission debriefing, he became overwhelmed by the urge to hold the skull in his hands.

Without warning, he lounged forward and grabbed it. Dr Boudreau tried to wear him off but to no avail. He was far stronger and quicker than she could hope for.

“You fool!” she exclaimed angrily. “Now you’ve ruined everything!”

But Riker wasn’t listening to her. He held the skull with both hands, staring at it, clearly mesmerized by whatever he was seeing. Dr Boudreau tried with all her strength to take it back but had no chance against the big, burly man less than half her age. After the fourth attempt she finally gave up – for the moment at least – and collapsed on the dais, an expression of despair on her face.

Riker, on the other hand, was smiling. 


	3. Izul's Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene between Riker and Dr Boudreau contains a few lines taken from a similar scene between Riker and Guinan in the episode “The Dauphin”, where Riker is trying to teach Wesley how to chat up women. I could never come up with such cheesy lines on my own. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 03 – IZUL’S LEGACY**

As all her attempts to take the artefact back had proved fruitless, Dr Boudreau tried to reason with Riker.

“Listen to me, Commander,” she said with grave insistence. “This skull… it is a dangerous artefact. I have worked with it, have studied it since it was found and barely scratched the surface. Several members of our expedition – all males of different ages and species – who had contact with it showed signs of irrational, even destructive behaviour shortly thereafter. You put yourself at great risk; why don’t you let me help? So far I have been the only one unharmed by whatever is working in that thing. Be reasonable and let me continue my work.”

Her words seemed to go by Riker without effect, though. He just grinned at her unrepentantly.

“I will… in my own good time,” he replied; then his mood seemed to change, and he added in a low, seductive voice. “Has anyone ever told you that you are the most beautiful woman in the galaxy?”

Dr Boudreau rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Not you, too!”

Riker ignored her interruption. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to tell you that.”

“Oh, please!” she said. “We’ve just met, less than an hour ago.”

“But I was afraid,” Riker continued, as if she hadn’t interrupted him at all. 

She gave him a disbelieving look. ”Of _me_?”

Riker stared at her like a lovesick puppy. “Of us. Of what we might become.”

“It is _extremely_ unlikely that there would _ever_ be an _us_ ,” she replied dryly.

“Oh, you think it’s just a line?” Riker asked, appearing hurt.

“Maybe I do think it’s a line,” she said. “It does sound like something you always start with when pursuing a new conquest.”

“Then you think I’m not sincere?” Riker asked indignantly. 

“I’m quite sure you aren’t,” she replied. “In fact, I _know_ you aren’t – better than you do. You’re under the influence of the artefact, Commander… unless you _are_ the most irritating womanizer I’ve met in my long life. You do realize I could easily be your grandmother, right?”

Now Riker was looking at her like a kicked puppy. “You’re sending me away?”

She rolled her eyes again. “No, Commander, I’m not sending you away.”

 _Not as long as you have my skull_ , she added mentally. Riker, of course, was in no condition to read the subtexts, and stared at her with naked admiration.

“That’s more than I expected,” he said. “I had only dreams…”

“Dreams can be dangerous,” she warned, knowing that from first-hand experience.

“Not _these_ dreams,” he protested. “I dream of a galaxy where your eyes are stars, and the universe worships the night.”

“Careful,” she said with tolerant amusement. “Putting me on a pedestal so high you may not be able to reach me.”

 _Or so I hope_ , she added in thought. Even if she were half her actual age, Riker would be the last man she would want to have anything to do with. She never liked the cocky pilot types.

“Then I’ll learn how to fly,” he prompted heatedly. “You are the heart in my day and the soul in my night.”

“And _you_ are clearly out of your mind, Commander,” Dr Boudreau said snidely, cutting off the immature gushing; by the Eternal, this was even worse than with Dr Roark, and she really didn’t want another accident.

Especially not one involving a Starfleet officer; one from Jean-Luc’s own ship, at that.

“Now, would you, please, give me back the artefact before it causes you any more harm than the loss of your dignity?”

“In my own good time, Doctor,” Riker said again, and she sighed impatiently.

“If you keep it much longer, there won’t be any good times left for you, Commander! In fact, there won’t be much left of _you_ ; of what really defines you.”

But Riker didn’t listen to her. His hungry looks alternate between her and the skull, and she was frightfully aware of the fact that they were alone in an isolated part of the alien city, dozens of levels below the surface, and that she couldn’t count on any outside help.

Oh, she could – and _would_ – kill him if she had to. But she’d rather avoid that final step. If only for Jean-Luc’s sake, who seemed to value the young idiot.

Her dilemma was unexpectedly solved by no-one less than his old friend Jean-luck himself. Riker’s comm badge beeped, and a somewhat tinny voice said ˘with a faint French accent.

“Picard to Riker. Commander, I’m afraid we have company.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the relatively shot time the Away Team had spent on the surface of Bolaxnu 7 – or rather _under_ the planet’s surface – Captain Picard had called up and read through every single report since the arrival of the expedition. It never harmed to have a little background knowledge.

It was a lot to read in such limited time, but Jean-Luc Picard was a fast reader, with an excellent memory. The more read, however, the more concerned he became.

“This makes no sense,” he said to Counselor Troi who was helping him analysing the data. “Every detail seems to support Annette’s – I mean Dr Boudreau’s – first announcement. That planet below us _must_ be Izul. Why would she say otherwise _now_?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing, Captain,” the Betazoid replied. “You’re the one who’s known her for the longest time.”

“Perhaps,” Picard allowed. “But I can’t _read_ her.”

“Neither can I,” Troi confessed. “She’s got an unusually disciplined mind. I can only feel obsession, but I don’t know where it’s coming from or what it pertains to.”

“Obsession should be right,” Picard muttered. "She’s old, brilliant, single-minded and as stubborn as a mule. Infuriating woman!”

“But amazing nonetheless?” Troi asked with a knowing smile.

“One of the best,” Picard admitted. “Still…”

He was interrupted by LaForge’s voice. “Bridge to Captain Picard.”

He sighed and touched his comm badge. “Yes, Mr LaForge, what is it?”

“We’ve got a vessel at interception course, sir,” LaForge reported. “ETA within fifty minutes.”

“What kind of ship?” Picard asked sharply.

“Based on its energy signature it must be a Ferengi _Marauder_ ,” LaForge, who had returned from the planet surface right after transferring the supplies, answered.

Picard suppressed a sigh and cursed in his native French. “ _Merde_! The very thing I hoped we’d be able to avoid, at least for a while yet. Very well, Mr LaForge, I’m on my way. Counselor, you with me!”

With Troi in tow, he hurried back to the bridge; LaForge vacated the command chair in visible relief. “They’ve just come into visual range, sir,” he reported.

Picard nodded. “On screen,” he said. “Maximal magnification.”

Ensign Jerôme Baila, currently manning the tactical station for the absent Worf, carried out the order. The main viewer came alive with the representation of the surrounding area of space and, in the middle, the small, horseshoe crab-shaped image of a ship.

“That is the best I can give you, sir,” he said apologetically. “They are still too far away for a bigger picture in real time.”

“It doesn’t matter, Ensign,” Picard replied dryly. “Meanwhile we’re all quite familiar with what a Ferengi ship looks like. Do they send any ID?”

Baila shook his head. “None, sir. All I can tell is that it has the Warp signature of a _D’Kora_ -class _Marauder_ , equipped with a variety of directed energy weapons: a pair of forward missile launchers, positioned on the port and starboard sides of the ‘claw’ section, and a torpedo launcher located at the peak of the primary hull,” he rattled down the characteristics like a student during an exam.

Picard rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Ensign; we’re all aware of the specifics of Ferengi armoury. _Including_ their electromagnetic pulse weapon and the fact that a _Marauder_ can fire a plasma energy burst powerful enough to disable a _Galaxy_ -class starship.

Baila might have blushed – he certainly seemed embarrassed enough – but it wasn’t visible, due to his dark skin. Only LaForge noticed the sudden increase of heat in the ensign’s cheeks, and only because his VISOR was programmed to pick up such things.

“How is that possible, sir?” Ensign Kenny Lin, doubling for Data, asked. He was new at Ops… well, he was new in general, barely a year out of the Academy. “I mean, isn’t a _Marauder_ a freighter? And one much smaller than the _Enterprise_ at that? It can’t be longer than 400 metres, according to the scale on the bottom of the viewer.”

“Three hundred and eighty-six,” LaForge corrected absent-mindedly. “A tough little bastard, though. _Marauders_ are supposed to function both as freighters and as warships, and they can travel with a speed beyond Warp 9,” he looked at Picard. “Captain, it would perhaps be a wise precaution to raise our shields, just in case.”

Picard nodded in agreement. “Make it so, Mr Baila. And give me Commander Riker on Bolaxnu 7.”

“Shields raised, Captain,” Baila reported, less tan a minute later. “Channel to Bolaxnu 7 is open. You can speak now.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” Picard raised his voice, just enough for the ship’s communications system to pick it up. “Picard to Riker. Commander, I’m afraid we have company.”

“What sort of company?” Riker asked.

“A horseshoe crab-shaped one,” Picard said. “A _Marauder_ -class ship is approaching us at high speed. They send no ID, but we can assume that this isn’t a friendly visit, so I am not taking any risks. We are evacuating the planet and taking the archaeologists with us.”

“They won’t like it,” Riker warned him. “They’ve made great sacrifices to get here in the first place, Captain.”

“Of course they won’t like it,” Picard snorted. “I understand that; even respect it, within acceptable boundaries. These, however, are not that sort of boundaries. Tell them that staying down on the planet surface is _not_ an acceptable risk. Tell Annette that we’ll do our best to get her back to her excavation as soon as humanly possible, but she needs to be reasonable. The greatest discovery won’t be of much use for her if she’s dead.”

“No need for concern, Jean-Luc,” the deep, smoky voice of Dr Boudreau came from a little distance from Riker’s comm badge. “I won’t risk the safety of any of my co-workers. We’ve had a few encounters with visiting Ferengi during the recent years and know that they can’t be trusted. The team will be ready within the hour.”

“You may not _have_ an hour,” Picard warned her. “The ship is coming in at high Warp; they might arrive sooner.”

“That would be unfortunate, but it can’t be helped,” replied the voice of DR Boudreau. “You know we must at least temporarily secure the excavations and save the information we’ve gathered, or else our entire work here would be for nothing.”

An amateur archaeologist himself, Picard could understand her passion for her work and the urge to save its results all too well.

“All right,” he said reluctantly, “but hurry up. Ask Commander Data to help you; he is unique with computerized databases. I’ll try to stall the Ferengi for as long as I can, but when I give the word, you _will_ be beamed up, no matter the state of things down there. Picard out.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Did you really have encounters with visiting Ferengi?” Riker asked, after Dr Boudreau had ordered the securing of the excavations as a pre-emptive measure before evacuation.

Needless to say that the archaeologists were _not_ happy. But they were also reasonable people, and Dr Boudreau had enough authority to have even unpopular orders carried out. Time being an issue, everyone worked like mad people on saving as much information as possible. Data even decided to risk an overload of his neural network by downloading as much of the databanks of _Solna Centre_ as he could access in the limited timeframe.

“Define _visiting_ ,” Dr. Boudreau replied to Riker’s question. “We had a few ships in orbit that tried to buy our finds of us; _and_ the occasional threat via subspace radio. We never actually _saw_ any of them in person.”

“They _threatened_ you?” Riker scowled angrily. “How did they _dare_?”

Dr Boudreau shrugged. “They were probably out for revenge against us because of the historical value of this place. However, they have not committed any actual hostile act… so far.”

“What historical value?” Riker asked in surprise. “I thought this _wasn’t_ Izul, after all?”

She gave him a tight smile. “That was what you were _supposed_ to think; what _everyone_ was supposed to think.”

“So this _is_ Izul, then?” Riker clarified.

She rolled her eyes. “What else _should_ it be? But if I hadn’t revised my first, over-enthusiastic report, this place would be swarming with treasure hunters; with Ferengi before everyone else.”

“But do you have any actual, solid proof that this _is_ Izul?” Riker insisted.

She gave him that tight smile again. “I used to. You took it.”

“The skull?” Riker realized in shock, and she nodded.

“It was the central conductor of power of the Faran emperors.”

“ _How_?” Riker demanded.

Dr Boudreau shrugged. “Apparently, the emperor was supposed to use it to contact with the memories of his predecessors. But it was a delicate and dangerous process that needed the room where I worked with the skull – and a great deal of practice,” she gave him a concerned look. “You _really_ shouldn’t handle the skull. The safeties only work in that particular room, and you have no experience whatsoever to work with it.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Riker said confidently. “I can deal with alien artefacts.”

She, however, shook her head. “Not with this one, you can’t. At the very least you should put it into a containment box; and _don’t_ tell anyone about it, not even your own crew! They might be careless in their talking, and we can’t afford that. Under no circumstances may the Ferengi learn about the skull. In their hands, it could lead to disaster.”

“Why?” Riker asked a little bewildered.

“Because _they_ might be able to use it,” she replied seriously. “Now, put that thing into a containment box if you aren’t giving it back to me… which would be the only at least partially safe solution.”

“You worry too much,” Riker said blithely; but he did put the skull into a containment box, which he then placed into a leather bag. “Everything is going to be fine. Now, let us return to _Solna Centre_ ; the others are waiting for us.”

“Everything will be so far from fine that it could only be measured by astronomical units,” she muttered bitterly, but followed him nonetheless.

What else could she have done? He still had the skull in his possession, and she didn’t have the strength to take it from him.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The rest of the Away team and most archaeological teams had already gathered in _Solna Centre_ when they arrived, making the huge room appear a bit claustrophobic. Only now did Riker realize how many people had been really working at the excavation sites. Not archaeologists only but also engineers and scientists representing a dozen or so different fields of experience, from geologists through palaeontologists to exobiologists.

“It is the relations,” Data explained the claustrophobic feeling matter-of-factly. “Like the rest of the city, this area was built with beings of much shorter stature in mind. That is while the ceiling appears too low to the human eye – even though it is not.”

“You mean it was built for Ferengi?” Riker clarified, but the android shook his head.

“No, sir; or, at least, not necessarily. But considering the fact that the Ferengi used to have close connections to the Faran Empire, the inhabitants oft his planet were presumably of similarly short stature.”

“ _Did_ the Ferengi have such a close connection to the Faran Empire?” Riker asked doubtfully. 

Data nodded. “Yes, sir. It is a historically proven fact that the Ferengi served the Faran Empire as interstellar traders and merchants.”

“Proven by whom?” Riker was still not quite ready to believe it. “Have you found any solid proof in here?”

“I did find some interesting facts,” Data said, “but for the record, this part has been known for quite some time, thanks to the Faran emperor Doshin, who was actually a succession of rulers, all of whom took the same name upon rising to power, and all of whom had one thing in common: the possession of a crystal skull said to have mysterious powers.”

“Nonsense,” Riker snorted, trying not to look either at Dr Boudreau or at the leather bag in his own hands.

“It does sound fairly unbelievably,” Data allowed, “especially as it is a rather frequent practice to assign divine powers to a hereditary ruler. In any case, all these emperors of Izul did a great deal of writing – the _Annals_ that, I believe, have already been mentioned – which aided, in some part, to the shaping of Ferengi society. That is why the Ferengi take to Izul in the same way that Earth people took to Camelot, with the skull being the equivalent of the Holy Grail.”

“Romantic nonsense!” Dr Boudreau muttered.

Turning to her with interest, Data asked. “Are you at all familiar with the legend of the crystal skull, Doctor?”

“Of course I am,” she replied with a shrug. “A lot of cultures seem to have their equivalent of a miraculous crystal skull, even the Vulcans. However, it is my understanding that the one of Izul has definitely been destroyed thousands of years ago.”

“Data, have you found any information in the databases about those so-called mysterious powers of the skull?” Riker asked. “What did it actually _do_?”

“There is no actual information; at least nothing that one could find by the way of a direct search,” the android replied. “I am certain that I could figure it out eventually, _if_ I had the time to cross-reference the _Annals_ with the rituals of the imperial court, specifically the rites of succession and the whole legendarium surrounding them. Unfortunately, time is the exact thing I do not have at the moment. I had to concentrate on downloading great amounts of data; analyzing them has to wait.”

“Well, let’s hope that the captain can get rid of the Ferengi, so that you’ll get the chance to come back and study the archives some more,” Riker said.

The android tilted his head to the side with that slightly jerky, bird-like gesture of his. “That would certainly be agreeable, Commander.”

Before Riker could have reacted to that, his comm badge chirped again. “Picard to Riker.”

He touched the badge. “Go on, Captain.”

“Number One, we are having a problem,” Picard told him. “Due to the denseness of the tunnels down there, the transporter is unable to lock on to the archaeologists. The signal from the Away Team is also extremely low. The Ferengi are still approaching, so we have to beam those people with communicators up first, and the rest must proceed to the surface, where sensors will be able to lock on to them.”

“Understood,” Riker answered. “The archaeologists have a wounded man here; I’ll send him back to the _Enterprise_ with my comm badge and go with the rest to the surface.”

“Make it so, Number One,” the captain’s voice answered. “ _Enterprise_ out.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Barely was the channel closed, Ensign Baila called out to Picard. “Captain, incoming message from the Ferengi ship!”

“On screen!” Picard ordered.

Baila obeyed, and in the next moment the image of the _Marauder_ ’s bridge filled the main screen. Like most rooms occupied by important Ferengi, it contained plush carpeting, the best equipment money could buy and the captain’s chair looked like it was covered with Deltan nappa leather: the softest, most sensually stimulating natural material in the known galaxy.

The person sitting in the plush chair, however, was far from usual in appearance as Ferengi went. Though short like all his people, he had an oversized head covered with sleek russet hair – save for a semi-circular area above his eyebrow ridges – which created a V-shaped line with the bushy eyebrows. On that bald area, which ended shortly before the crown of his head, a pale red tattoo could be seen; presumably a tribal or clan identification.

The eyebrow ridges that shadowed his long, pale eyes continued in an unbroken line along the enormous ear shells and down to the tip of his chin, which was long enough to touch his chest. He even had a short, curly red goatee, several shades darker than his hair, held together by gold pins. His jacket was of royal blue velvet, with a stiff collar seamed with gold thread and triangular gold buttons.

He looked definitely venerable, which was unusual from a Ferengi – to say the least. He looked like someone who had to be taken seriously.

“This is DaiMon Zaeb from the _Izuru_ to the unknown vessel,” he said in a deep, oozing voice that was a curious mix of false benevolence and barely veiled threat. “Identify yourselves and state your business here.”

“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard from the Federation starship _Enterprise_ ,” replied Picard neutrally. “We are here to bring supplies to the expedition that has been doing research on Bolaxnu 7 for years – as you presumably already know, since your people have molested the archaeologists often enough in the recent years.”

“Our people were only defending our interests,” the unusual-looking Ferengi said coldly. “Which was apparently necessary, as you are clearly heading a spying mission.”

The absurd claim amused Picard; in all his encounters with various Ferengi during his career _this_ was the most ridiculous accusation by far.

“May I ask how you came to this rather remarkable conclusion?” he asked dryly.

DaiMon Zaeb glared at him from the viewscreen with open despise. “There’s no use lying, _hew-man_ ,” he replied. “We have picked up transmissions from a Federation agent named Boudreau, who bragged over her discovery of the lost city of Izul and that of its greatest treasure, the crystal skull.”

“For starters, Dr Boudreau is _not_ a Federation agent,” Picard said with forced patience; losing one’s calm in front of a Ferengi was inviting defeat. “She is a scientist; one of the best in her field. Secondly, she has revised her theory that Bolaxnu 7 would be Izul. And thirdly, she never mentioned _anything_ about a crystal skull.”

“Not to you, perhaps,” Zaeb said dismissively. “As far as the revise of her theory: she is lying. She is lying _because_ she found the crystal skull and wants to keep it for herself.”

“Nonsense,” Picard said with a snort. “Annette Boudreau doesn’t lie, and she doesn’t keep artefacts she finds at her various excavations. Regardless of that, since our people were the first to chart this area, theoretically it should belong to the Federation. Isn’t that what the Ferengi Salvage Code states: that anything found abandoned is open to claim by those who find it?”

The Ferengi glared at him coldly. Even on the viewscreen, it was a fairly menacing sight. “This is not a situation where the _first arrived – first served principle_ would fit, _hew-man_ ,” he said icily. “This planet belongs to the Ferengi, and all members of the Federation had best vacate it. On behalf of my government I thereby proclaim ownership over the long lost world of our ancestors: Izul.”

“I told you already,” Picard began, but LaForge interrupted him.

“Captain, a Ferengi landing party has just beamed down to the planet surface.”

“Have they now?” Picard asked softly. Then, turning his attention back to the Ferengi, he said, “I am told that the 153rd Rule of Acquisition says: _Business is war; it is important to recognize the winner_. I warn you, DaiMon Zaeb: if harm should come to _anyone down there_ , the price extracted will be a high one. Consider therefore very carefully if you are really in the position to emerge form our encounter victoriously.”

And he made the cut-throat gesture to signal Ensign Baila to end the conversation.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As the channel to the _Enterprise_ closed, Riker placed his communicator on the injured Dr Roark, whom Dr Selar and her med tech, Ensign Tarses, had brought to _Solna Centre on_ a gurney.

“Mr Work, give your comm badge to Dr Boudreau,” he then ordered. “It is important that she would be brought to safety.”

The Klingon nodded and did as he’d been told, despite Dr Boudreau’s protests, who didn’t want to leave her team behind.

“I’ll lead them to safety,” Riker promised. “But you must go up with my people. Your knowledge is very important; we must not risk losing it by losing you.”

“Oh, Commander, you really know how to conquer a woman’s heart with sweet talk,” she replied dryly but stopped arguing.

“Commander,” Ensign Tarses said. “I’d like to give my comm badge to Lady zh’Cheen. She’s a celebrity – almost royalty – among her own people. We should not put her at risk.”

“And if we run into hostile Ferengi?” Riker asked. “You’ve never had any training in combat, Ensign.”

“Actually, I have, sir; at the Academy,” Tarses replied. “Where I was also taught to put the safety of civilians, especially that of alien dignitaries, before my own.”

“He is right, Commander,” Dr Selar said calmly. “Logic dictates that civilian dignitaries should be beamed out of potentially dangerous situations first. Besides, Ensign Tarses is part-Vulcan and accordingly resilient.”

Riker rolled his eyes. “Spare me the speech about Vulcan logic and superiority, Doctor; I’m really not in the mood. Very well, Tarses, give your damned comm badge to the lady and let’s see that we all get out of here, as soon as possible.”

If his uncharacteristically rude reaction surprised the Vulcan, she gave no sign of it. Within the minute, she, the wounded man, Dr Boudreau and the Andorian were beamed up, leaving the rest of the Away Team behind, with several teams of archaeologists, some of whom were beginning to panic.

“Is everyone here?” Riker asked. Affirmatives from all team leaders came. “All right, then; we’re going to have to go up to the surface. Who knows these tunnels best?” An elderly woman in a coverall, wearing a utility belt full of engineering tools, raised her hand.

“Great,” Riker said. “You’ll be leading us; and see that you find the shortest way up.”

“The quickest and fastest way would be through the emergency escalators and the transport cars,” the woman, presumably an engineer, replied. “It wouldn’t be the shortest, though. Nor the easiest.”

“As long as it is _really_ fast, I don’t care how long and how complicated it gets,” Riker answered impatiently. “Can we just go? Time is something of an issue here.”

“Sure, Commander,” the woman said with a shrug, clearly unimpressed with his bossy attitude. “Follow me.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She led them through a series of emergency escalators from _Solna Centre_ to the Blue Level, four levels higher, where they boarded the transport cars, pressing as many people in one car as they could. The thirty second waiting time for the next car seemed eternity to the frightened civilians. Riker sent Data with the first group, Tarses with the second one and Worf with the third one, remaining with the last group himself.

Fortunately, they all reached the midway dispatch centre – the one with the brightly coloured, abstract harlequin pattern on the walls – without any incidents. From there, the engineer herded them into a different line of transport cars – the express ones, or so she called them – which raced along a monochrome ochre tunnel with sickening speed.

“We have no time for that; pull yourselves together!” Riker said impatiently when some of the civilians complained about getting sick.

Before that could have happened, though, the cars came to an abrupt stop and released them into a preciously unseen – by the _Enterprise_ officers at least – cavernous room that was decorated in the usual, eye-watering style: the walls diagonally striped in bright reds, whites and greens, while the brown pillars framing the semi-translucent doors and the grids that looked like wrought iron and didn’t appear to have any actual purpose, had yellow horizontal stripes.

Reliefs and sculptures of yellow rock broke the hypnotic monotony of the striped walls; the humanoid beings depicted on them had vague similarity with the Ferengi but their heads had a similar bone structure as the sculptures found at the latest excavation site, the one some twenty levels below _Solna Centre_.

“We call this the tri-colour level,” the engineer said. “From here we can access directly the upper dispatch centre.”

She went to a small, arched niche in the wall and simply touched it in the middle with her palm. To the _Enterprise_ officers’ surprise, the seemingly solid wall party framed by the stone arch… well, _vanished_ would have been the best word for it.

All of a sudden, it simply _wasn’t_ there.

“Holographic camouflage?” Ensign Simon Tarses eyed the newly opened doorway cautiously.

Data shook his head. “No; as an android, I would have recognized the illusion as such. No, the wall _was_ there; and it was _solid_. I would assume something akin to our replicator technology at work here.”

“Akin; but much more advanced,” the engineer replied. “Like the archaeologists, we, too, have barely begun to scratch the surface of things here.”

“Yes, well, we’ll see what we can do to ensure the continued research here once we’ve dealt with the Ferengi,” Riker retorted. “How do we proceed from here?”

“Through this door to the upper dispatch centre – _T-centralen_ , as Dr Eckbäck named it – and from there we take the automated transport system to the surface,” the engineer explained.

Riker couldn’t care less what the upper dispatch centre was called and who had christened it. All he cared about was to get the crystal skull safely to the _Enterprise_ before the Ferengi could get their grubby paws on it. “Can you operate the transporter?” he asked.

“I don’t have to,” the engineer replied. “We simply stand on the platform, and the system delivers us on the surface, between the two monoliths. That’s why it’s called _automated_ , you see.”

Riker ignored the thinly veiled sarcasm; this was not the time to deal with belligerent civilians.

“Show me the transporter platform,” he ordered instead.

The engineer ducked through the doorway – they all had to duck, it was obviously meant for the use of much shorter people – and they ended up in the large room with the walls painted with the puce forest… or the local equivalent of it. The engineer led them to the transporter platform and they began taking people to the surface on groups of six.

Again, Riker and Worf went with the last two groups. As soon as the alien transporter beam released them, Riker stepped off the platform, hit his comm badge without taking a look at his surroundings.

“Riker to _Enterprise_. We’ve left the tunnels and reached the surface. I think…” he trailed off as he realized that the reddish light of the Bolaxnu sun was reflected from the metallic surface of a Ferengi disruptor, aimed directly at him.

“I think we have a problem here,” he added a little lamely, seeing the huddled-together civilians completely surrounded by Ferengi wearing black leather outfits with white trim, carrying neural whips on their belts and pointing heavy, pistol-like disruptors at the group.

“And you don’t even begin to understand the problems you are having, _hew-man_ ,” the leader of the Ferengi landing party sneered.


	4. Bargains & Lies, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition are genuine items. I took them from the actual episodes and from the DS9 relaunch book “The Worlds of DS9 – Ferenginar”, respectively.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04 – BARGAINS & LIES, PART 1**

“You don’t even begin to understand the problems you are having, _hew-man_ ,” the leader of the Ferengi landing party sneered.

Like the others, he was wearing a black leather outfit with white trim and a mean-looking neural whip on his belt. But his leathers seemed to be the real item, the white trimming the fur of the extremely rare silver fox native to the planet Walhalla (and therefore under strict protection), and his belt was studded with black opals framed in gold.

Nor did he look like the usual Ferengi, either. Starting with the fact that he had actual _hair_ on that bulbous head of his, pale eyes shadowed by bushy eyebrows, the prominent ridges of which formed a continuous, curved line with his enormous ear shells; a line that continued in a long, ridged chin that touched his chest. In the centre of his forehead he wore a rhombus-shaped blue tattoo that encircled some strange symbols.

The rest of the landing party – mere muscle, as one could tell at first glance – didn’t look exactly like your run-of-the-mill Ferengi, either.

For starters, they were half a head taller than any Ferengi Riker had ever seen. They were also extremely heavily built, like the – hypothetical – cross between an average Ferengi and a Terran gorilla, with short, powerful legs, a barrel chest, heavy shoulders and long arms. The spare economy of their movements spoke of a much higher muscle density, too, though there was no doubt that they could move with alarming speed if they had to.

The shape of their heads was altogether Ferengi-like, save for the disturbingly large canines that looked positively threatening as their teeth were bared in a grin. Their cheeks and foreheads were so densely covered with tattoos that it appeared from a distance as if their faces had been blue. 

The archaeologists and other members of the expedition huddled together in anxiety. Being aimed at by a disruptor was bad enough, but disruptors could be set to stun. A Ferengi neural whip, on the other hand, could only do one thing: fire high-energy plasma discharges at a target, leaving the victim a few million brain cells short when they came to.

Especially scientists found _that_ a much worse possibility than physical injuries. Riker, however, merely smiled.

“We’ll see who’s going to have the bigger problems here, Ferengi,” he replied. “Don’t you think you should at least introduce yourself before making any threats?”

The Ferengi shrugged. “I am Luug, executive officer of the _Izuru_. And _you_ – and your fellow _hew-mans_ – are now prisoners of the Alliance. You will turn over your weapons and offer no resistance.”

To the utter horror of the frightened civilians, Riker actually _laughed_ at that very real threat, making even his own officers wonder whether he was suffering from temporary insanity.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he replied confidently. “In fact, I don’t think you are in the position to make any threats. I know you’ve come for the crystal skull. Unfortunately for you, I’ve already found it and hidden so well that you won’t find it, even if you searched the whole planet for the next hundred years.”

At that statement, the _Enterprise_ officers exchanged bewildered looks. Hadn’t Dr Boudreau just denied the very existence of a crystal skull? Hadn’t she said that it had been most likely destroyed thousands of years ago?

The Ferengi didn’t seem to buy Riker’s act, either.

“I don’t have to,” he bared his perfectly sharpened teeth. “All I need is to order my Kakiri warriors here to kill the hostages, one by one. We’ll see how many deaths there will be before you give in.”

“That won’t work,” Riker said with a shrug. “Any moves on your part, or on that of your trained monkeys here, will only cause me to trigger a thermonuclear device that I’ve hidden in the underground city.”

“You’ve _what_?” one of the archaeologists demanded in shock. Riker ignored him.

“It has a wide enough range to blow up the entire planet under our feet,” he continued. “You didn’t think I’d come here unprepared, did you? We knew you jokers would show up and make unreasonable demands sooner or later. That’s what Ferengi do, isn’t it? _Never ask when you can take_ – isn’t that what the 53rd Rule of Acquisition says?”

“The 32nd,” the Ferengi corrected automatically. “The 53rd says: _Never trust anybody taller than you_ – a Rule particularly fitting our current situation, don’t you think, _hew-man_? You don’t look particularly trustworthy, even as _hew-mans_ go.”

“Neither are you, even as Ferengi go,” Riker returned. “But if you don’t want to chance loosing out on the skull – and other things that can be found in the lost city – you won’t have any other choice than to negotiate. You’ll simply _have_ to trust me.”

The Ferengi snorted. “ _Trust is the biggest liability of all_ ,” he quoted the 88th Rule; then, for good measure, he added the 67th one. “ _Labour camps are full of people who trusted the wrong person_.”

“Perhaps,” Riker allowed. “But even your own government found Captain Picard trustworthy, despite the fact that he first encountered your people in battle. What’s more, they repeatedly _asked_ for him to be present at sensitive negotiations. We’ll do the same, you and me. I’ll arrange for the Captain to beam down within the hour… _if_ you don’t hinder me in beaming the civilians off-planet and to safety.”

“I have no objections to removing them from our planet,” Luug said dismissively. “In fact, I _want_ them gone. But once the hostages are safe, what guarantees do I have that you won’t simply flee with them – and with the skull?”

“Mr Worf and I will stay on the planet,” Riker gestured towards the Klingon who was glaring at the Ferengi with the expression of a particularly ill-humoured razor-beast. “As you can see, we have no comm badges; therefore the transporter can’t locate us.”

Which wasn’t entirely true, and Riker gave Data, who was opening his mouth to point out that very fact, a quelling look. The android understood and shut his mouth again.

“Those are my terms,” Riker said, turning back to Luug. “Accept them, or I’ll blow up the planet under us. It’s that simple.”

Unlike the other members of his stunted race Riker had met before, Luug didn’t seem to be a coward, though… or an idiot, completely blinded by greed.

“And kill all the hostages in the process?” he asked, taunting. “I don’t think so.”

Riker shrugged. “Your trained monkeys would kill them eventually anyway; and a quick death is preferable to your sadistic neural whips. I’d be doing them a favour.”

Luug grinned like a shark, caressing the gold-embossed handle of his own whip.

“Had a taste of them, hadn’t you?” Unpleasant, aren’t they? But don’t worry; we only use tem if we have to.”

“How reassuring,” Riker said dryly. “Now, I think we’ve wasted enough time on pleasantries. I for my part am fed up to my ears with this useless squabbling.”

He turned to the Klingon. “Mr Worf, activate the device. Set the countdown to 3 minutes and start it at my mark.”

Worf stared at him with an inscrutable face and for a moment Riker was worried that the Klingon, incapable of deception due to his rigid sense of honour, might blurt out the truth about the nonexistent thermonuclear device. But Worf caught himself just in time, acknowledged his orders crisply and pretended to punch the necessary instruction into his tricorder.

“Explosives are live, sir,” he reported. “Countdown in one hundred and eighty seconds, at your mark.”

Riker nodded. “Thank you, Mr Worf. Mark.”

The Klingon punched one final order in the tricorder, and then he switched the little instrument to speakers, so that they could all hear the ticking down of seconds.

“Countdown started, Commander,” he said. “Explosion in one hundred and seventy seconds.”

The members of the archaeological expedition began to panic in earnest.

“Well,” Riker turned back to the Ferengi. “It’s up to you now.”

Luug was clearly furious, but he was not a fool. He knew when he had to back off in order to win the upper hand later.

“All right,” he said. “This round clearly goes to you. But, as the 88th Rule says, _It isn’t over till it’s over_. I’ll accept your terms, according to the 20th Rule: _He who dives under the table today, lives to profit tomorrow_. You can stop the countdown.”

Riker gave him a jaundiced smile. “You take me for a fool, don’t you? Not before the civilians are all safely aboard the Enterprise. The time will just be enough to beam them out – barely.”

He turned to the android. “Data, move everyone a little further away from those monoliths and have them beamed aboard. Require all person transporters of the ship to be used for the evacuation.”

“Aye sir,” the android acknowledged calmly.

“Once you’re back, see that both Captain Picard and Dr Boudreau are beamed down in an hour,” Riker continued; he glanced at the Ferengi, smiling. “We should have all interested parties at the negotiation table, shouldn’t we?”

Luug’s pale eyes had he cold determination of those of a poisonous snake but he didn’t give any answer. Nor did he – or any of his warriors – try to stop Data when the android herded the civilians away from the monoliths, where the energy output of the city’s automated transporter system wouldn’t interfere with the _Enterprise_ transporters and requested an emergency beam-out for the entire expedition, with his own comm badge as the anchor point.

Within the next forty seconds, the civilians were gone, in groups of six and twelve, depending on the capacity of the respective transporter rooms.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When everyone but Worf was gone, Riker turned to the Klingon.

“Stop the countdown, Mr Worf, but keep it on standby, just in case. I’m not taking any risks here.”

“Aye, sir,” the Klingon punched some more codes into his tricorder; then he reported, “Countdown on standby at fifty-six seconds, Commander.”

Riker turned back to the Ferengi.

“That was a tactically sound decision, Mr Luug. In exchange, and to show our appreciation, Captain Picard and I will be interested in some goodwill official trading that would make the crystal skull seem like a little trinket.”

“A _trinket_?” Luug snorted; he seemed to do that a lot. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, _hew-man_! The skull is the only truly important thing in that old city of useless ruins.”

“Says you,” Riker replied. “You don’t know what else is down there.”

The Ferengi glared at him in suspicion. “And you do?”

“Some of it,” Riker said. “There are more than two hundred levels choking full of data, advanced technology and other valuable things.”

“And you’d be willing to share?” the Ferengi clearly didn’t believe that.

Riker shrugged. “Why not? There’s enough for both of us… for both of our governments, in fact. Why shouldn’t be able to do some honest business with each other?”

“ _There’s nothing more dangerous than an honest businessman_ ,” Luug quoted the 27th Rule. “But you’re missing the point, _hew-man_. As the 12th Rule says: _Latinum isn’t the only thing that shines_. In this case, there are more important factors to consider.”

“More important than profit?” Riker asked in surprise. “What happened to _There is no substitute for success_?”

“Rule Number 27,” Luug nodded in recognition. “You’re surprisingly well-versed in our philosophy, Commander.”

This was the first time he called Riker anything but _hew-manIt’s always good business to know about new customers before they walk in your door_ ,” the Ferengi quoted, nodding in agreement. “Very impressive, commander. Very impressive indeed. I’ve never met an alien with such knowledge about our philosophy; and I _have_ met my fair share of aliens in the over thirty of your standard years I’ve been serving in our merchant fleet.”

Which was basically identical with their battle fleet, Riker knew that. Which, in turn, meant that Luug was the closest thing to a seasoned professional soldier – and a raking officer at that – that the Ferengi could have.

“You still didn’t tell me why the crystal skull is so important for you,” he said.

Luug smiled thinly. “No; nor do I intend to do so.”

“Why?” Riker asked with a mocking grin. “We’re practically friends now, aren’t we?”

The Ferengi snorted again. “Hardly. And even if we were, the 129th Rule clearly states: _If you’d keep a secret from an enemy, don’t tell it a friend_. I always found that particular Rule eminently useful.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As soon as Data returned to the _Enterprise_ , the captain summoned him to his ready room, asking for a detailed report. Data delivered a word-to-word repetition of everything that had been said on the planet’s surface, but the additional data didn’t really bring much light into the situation. If anything every new detail only added to the confusion.

“It isn’t like Will to act so recklessly, putting civilians at risk,” Picard said. “That bluff with the thermonuclear device was a fairly transparent one. It’s fortunate that neither we nor the Ferengi can perform a reliable scan of the underground city due all that interference, or they’d have called Riker’s bluff, and things could have ended ugly.”

“The commander is a gifted poker player,” the android reminded him. “This is not the first time that he had to fast-talk himself out of a dangerous situation – and succeeded. He usually knows what he is doing.”

“Usually, yes,” Picard sighed. “In this particular case, however, I am not so sure. He acts out of character, and that’s never a good sign.”

“I am afraid I cannot offer any further insights, sir,” Data said apologetically. “The nuances of human nature still escape me. It seems the only way to get the answers you need is to beam down to the planet’s surface.”

“Oh, I will, Mr Data, I will. But not before I get at least _some_ of the answers I need. I understand that you’ve downloaded great amounts of data from the Faran databanks directly into your positronic brain?”

“Indeed, sir. But they need to be translated first – the Faran language relates to modern Ferengi as classical Latin relates to 24th century French, only with much more modifications – and probably decoded, too, before I can start cross-referencing the data concerning the crystal skull.”

“Make it so,” Picard said. “Speaking of the skull; do you think that Commander Riker has indeed found it?”

The android considered the question for a moment.

“I really cannot tell, Captain. He stated that he had; but that might have been mere deception to mislead the Ferengi and to stall their hand. He did behave a little aggressively – more than usual, in fact – but I see no reason why he would be so protective about one particular artefact. Not before we find out if the artefact in question actually exists; and if it does, what was it used for.”

Picard nodded in agreement. “Quite right, Mr Data. And that is why we need to find some answers before I’d beam down and enter Will’s game. You go and download all the data into the library computer to free your own circuits for more practical purposes.”

“And what will _you_ be doing, sir?” the android asked.

“I’ll go and talk to Annette,” Picard replied with a grim smile.

“Do you believe she will tell you anything, sir?” Data seemed rather doubtful about that. “She was quite secretive towards us in the short time we met her. And she denied the existence of the crystal skull.”

“She _is_ secretive, by her very nature,” Picard answered. “And it comes with her job, too. The Faran Empire has been her pet project for half a century or more; and the competition in that particular area of archaeology has always been very hard. I hope, though, that appealing to our long friendship will help.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He found Dr Boudreau in one of the VIP quarters, where Troi had placed her. She’d found the time to change out of her late 23rd century uniform into a loosely cut, soft black-and-white patterned robe in the fashion worn by desert-dwellers which, considering the overall climate of Bolaxnu 7, made sense. She must have replicated it after coming aboard, though, as – like every other member of her expedition – she had to leave her personal belongings behind on Bolaxnu 7. 

Despite her one-hundred-and-some years and her snow white hair, she still looked gorgeous, courtesy of her strength of personality, blazing intelligence and the fine bone structure of her face. She didn’t seem to have aged a day in the long years since their last encounter.

She greeted Picard with the usual warmth of a decades-long friendship.

“Jean-Luc!” she said, taking his hand in both of her own and squeezed it gently. “It’s good to see you again. It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” Picard agreed, kissing her on the cheek. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to catch up right now. I need answers, Annette, and I need them _now_. The Ferengi are clearly out for confrontation, and I’d like to avoid a fight if I can.”

She nodded in understanding and led him to the living area of her quarters, where she sat down into one of the overstuffed armchairs standing around a low, glass-topped coffee table and gestured him to do the same.

“Very well,” she said seriously. “Ask your questions. I promise to be as honest with you as I can afford it, without putting us at risk.”

She’d been a Starfleet officer once, too; in fact, she was still a reserve officer. She knew what was at stake in disputed border areas and of her responsibility for helping to keep the peace. She _was_ a conscientious person, and Picard knew it. He _counted_ on it.

“Let’s begin with the most important question,” he said. “ _Is_ Bolaxnu 7 the lost planet of Izul?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.

Picard’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead on their own. “Why did you deny the fact, then?”

“Because of the Ferengi,” she said. “I should never have announced my discovery to the scientific community so early on. Not until we could have secured sufficient protection for the expedition. But I was so _excited_ , Jean-Luck!” her eyes sparkled with the memory of that day, her face glowed, making her look half her age. “You know how long I’ve been looking for this planet. How often I was ridiculed in the past for believing that Izul was an actual place, not just a legend like Atlantis or Ultima Thule or the Klingon paradise, Sto-Vo-Kor.”

Picard nodded. He remembered those debates well. Her career had nearly gone under because she would stubbornly hold onto her theory. A theory no-one else wanted to believe.

“And now I’ve found it,” she continued. “And it was such a deep satisfaction to prove all the nay-sayers wrong. But it was a mistake; I realized that as soon as the first Ferengi ships appeared in high orbit. So I tried to do some damage control and publicly admitted that I’d been wrong.”

“That couldn’t have been easy,” Picard said. She sighed in defeat.

“It was… humiliating beyond measure, yes. But I _had_ to d it. I couldn’t allow the Ferengi to lay hand on Izul’s legacy, and there was no-one who could have protected us in case of an all-out assault.”

“But why should they have attacked you?” Picard asked in surprise. “What is down there they would risk a war with the Federation for? That’s not how Ferengi usually act.”

“That’s not how the _average_ Ferengi usually acts,” she corrected. “It’s not their government I’m worried about. Oh, they’d try stealing artefacts and selling them on the black market. They might even succeed in working out an agreement with the Federation about a shared exploration of the city; which would lead to the same results, only on a much bigger scale. Such things are unavoidable, as long as there are buyers. _Greed is eternal_ , as their 10th Rule says, and there has been organized theft and illegal trafficking with historic artefacts since the grave robberies in Ancient Egypt. A certain percentage of loss is always has to be expected.”

“A much higher percentage when Ferengi are involved, I suppose,” Picard commented dryly.

She nodded. “Yes; but if we manage to examine and document the artefacts first, it’s an acceptable loss in exchange for the knowledge we can gain in the process.”

“Why _are_ you worried them?” Picard asked with a frown.

“Because of the renegades,” she replied; at his slightly confused look, she asked. “Are you familiar with Commander Ransom’s essay about the Ferengi caste system?”

Picard shook his head. “I didn’t even know that Ferengi _had_ a caste system; save for their women being considered as second-class citizens, that is.”

“They don’t have one now,” she explained. “But they used to have one, up until two hundred years ago. Until then, a rather small number of families ruled Ferenginar – or _Ferengar_ , as it was called earlier – forming some kind of oligarchy, which was protected by a warrior caste called the Kakiri Warriors. _Kakiri_ means _the chosen ones_ , by the way.”

“They had a _warrior caste_?” Picard found it hard to believe. “What comes next, Klingon merchants?”

“There _is_ such a thing as Klingon merchants,” she pointed out. “No society can live without trade; even if the people who do the trading aren’t respected. Of course, in the case of the Ferengi, that is one of the most respected occupations; if not _the_ most respected one.”

“And what happened to those Kakiri warriors?” Picard asked, still struggling with the idea of a _Ferengi_ warrior caste.

“They’ve been almost completely wiped out during the insurrection two hundred years ago,” she replied. “The rest oft hem went into exile with the survivors of the ruling caste, to which they are singularly loyal to this very day.”

“Do you believe that the ship now facing us belongs to these renegades?” Picard asked, and she nodded grimly.

“I’m fairly sure, yes. It is the _Izuru_ , isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Picard said in surprise. “How do you know?”

“They’ve been here before… but never when official Ferengi patrols flew by. Do you know what the word _Izuru_ means?” Picard shook his head. “It’s a word in the late Faran dialect and means _Legacy_. The word comes from the same root as Izul, which means _Inheritance_. Only the ruling class was ever allowed to use names in Faran; for ships as well as for people.”

“That might have changed since the insurrection,” Picard reminded her, but she shook her head.

“That might have been the case right after the masses succeeded in overthrowing the oligarchy, out of sheer defiance,” she said. “But in the long run, millennia-old indoctrination is more redundant than that. If you ask a linguist to examine all known Ferengi names – those of people or places or ships – they’ll find that less than point five per cent of those names are actual Faran,” she smiled wryly. “I happen to know that. Our linguists _have_ run the analysis. Which is all the more interesting as Ferengi is a much bastardized version of late Faran. They still won’t dare to use classical Faran names. It’s supposed to bring bad luck.”

“Interesting,” Picard said thoughtfully. “I’ve noticed that the captain of the _Izuru_ doesn’t look like your average Ferengi; but we humans don’t look all alike, either.”

“In this case there’s a bit more than just intra-racial variety,” she said. “The ruling class, the Ferengi you know and the Kakiri warriors are a lot more different than you and I.”

“In what way?” Picard asked.

“They’re the same genus but not the same species,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Of course, this theory is based on the analysis of fossil Faran DNA; but according to our exobiologists the difference is about the same magnitude as between humans and chimpanzees and between humans and gorillas, respectively. With today’s Ferengi taking the role of chimpanzees, with a point seven per cent genetic difference from the ruling class, and the Kakiri warriors that of the gorillas. They seem to be one point six per cent different from the ruling class.”

Picard needed a moment to digest the shocking news dumped unceremoniously onto his lap. “A rare case of parallel evolution?” he then asked.

Dr Boudreau shrugged. “That, or some _very_ careful genetic manipulation in the distant past. Dr Roark postulated the theory that the Faran had enhanced their equivalent of primates and sent them to colonize new worlds; to do all the hard and dangerous work for them. Once the planet was more or less tamed and the necessary infrastructure built, they moved in and took over.”

“Sounds positively Ferengi-like,” Picard said.

She shrugged again. “Well, the Faran were there first. They taught the Ferengi everything they know today. The funny part is that the government still keeps in touch with the so-called renegades and uses them to expand its financial influence where the Ferengi themselves won’t be welcome.”

“ _Know your enemies… but do business with them anyway_ ,” Picard quoted the 177th Rule, and she nodded.

“Something like that, yes. And the fact that the Faran can’t be easily recognized as Ferengi has proved very useful for them.”

“Wait a minute!” Picard interrupted. “You said _Faran_?”

“Of course,” she replied. “The members of the overthrown Ferengi oligarchy _are_ the last of the Faran. They’re almost extinct by now because any offspring they ever produced with common Ferengi – and they rarely did so, as they consider the Ferengi an inferior species to this day – turned out sterile.”

Picard blinked in surprise. “Where did you tale all this data?”

“It all stands in Commander Ransom’s paper,” she replied. “You should read it. It’s very informative, and I’m sure it must be somewhere in your exobiology databanks.”

“I will,” Picard promised. “As soon as we’re back from the planet.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in surprise. “We’ve just beamed up.”

“Commander Riker has arranged a meeting with the executive officer of the _Izuru_ , down on Bolaxnu 7,” Picard explained. “And we’re expected down there, shortly. A Ferengi landing party – armed to the teeth – is there with him, so a bit of diplomacy is required,” he gave him a measuring look. “Are you physically up to dealing with them?”

“Of course I am,” she replied, her voice sharp. “You don’t think I’d let them drive me away from Izul, now that I’ve finally found it? Let me change back into my uniform and meet me in the transporter room in, say, ten minutes.”

Picard agreed and left her alone to change. He was halfway to Transporter Room Three when it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked her about the crystal skull.


	5. Bargains & Lies, Part 2

**CHAPTER 05 – BARGAINS & LIES, PART 2**

“I must compliment you, Commander, to the way you handled the Ferengi,” Worf said with grudging respect. “Although I must also admit that I feel a little uncomfortable with the fact that you’ve essentially gone against the honour codes taken at the Academy.”

“Have I now?” Riker asked in barely veiled amusement. “In what way?”

The Klingon furled his bushy eyebrows. “Well, you _have_ lied to him about the possession of the skull. _And_ about the thermonuclear device.”

“This is a serious point with you, isn’t it?” Riker asked, still sounding darkly amused.

Worf nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir. If you permit me to speak freely, while your actions were successful, they weren’t exactly honourable.”

Riker grinned. “Don’t worry about that, Mr Worf. This all belongs to the plan.”

“Which plan, sir?”

“The plan that will be explained to Captain Picard as soon as he beams down. Can you live with that for the moment?”

“For the moment,” the Klingon echoed with emphasis.

“Good,” Riker said. “Now, let’s go back to _Solna Centre_ and check the other main tunnels and transport lines to see if they might possibly lead to the surface somewhere. Just so that we’d have an escape route, should something go wrong with our scheduled meeting.”

Worf frowned again, not being used to such long speeches from Riker. The commander’s orders were usually clipped and to the point. Was he trying to hide something behind so many words or was he simply concerned about the upcoming negotiations? The Klingon decided to give his commanding officer the benefit of the doubt and assume the latter.

“If there is, Dr Boudreau would be able to show us,” he pointed out instead.

“I’d rather not depend on her,” Riker answered, clearly concerned. “She’s completely obsessed with the skull. She’d do everything to get it back; including selling us to the Ferengi.”

For his part, Worf wasn’t entirely convinced about that, but he agreed that they would need and escape route, just in case. They’d beamed down to the main dispatch centre, using the automated transporter of the city, but it was only a matter of time till the Ferengi found the means to use it, too. 

At least they had the advantage of knowing a few routes of the underground city; the ones they had already travelled. Worf had recorded them with his tricorder down to _Solna Centre_ and back. He only wished he had such records from the rest of the city – or at least as much of it as the expedition had already searched and mapped.

He also wished that Riker would be less paranoid about Dr Boudreau who, after all, had a working knowledge of the city’s layout and transport possibilities. But orders were orders and, like any good Klingon, it was hard-wired in his very nature to follow them.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Picard had asked Ensign Baila, Worf’s right-hand man, to put together a small security detail that would accompany them on their trip to the planet’s surface. Baila had chosen the Ensigns Daro and Baldor – the first one a native Rigelian, the second the progeny of Romulan defectors with a Vulcan citizenship – in the hope that not only would they bear the conditions on Bolaxnu 7 more easily, due to their Vulcanoid constitution, but would also deal with the Kakiri warriors easier, since they were both a lot stronger than they looked.

Together with those two tough, level-minded officers, Picard, Data, Troi and Dr Boudreau beamed down to the main dispatch centre of the underground city – and were surprised to find neither Riker nor Worf there.

“That is odd,” the android commented. “They were supposed to wait here for us. Could the Ferengi have captured them?”

“Unlikely,” Dr Boudreau stepped to one of the consoles, activated it with a touch of her palm and ran a quick scan of their surroundings. “According to the internal scanners the Ferengi are currently searching the tunnels two levels beneath us.”

“What about our people?” Picard asked.

“I can read a Klingon lifesign near _Solna Centre_ but I cannot find Commander Riker anywhere,” she answered in concern. “Either he’s in one of the naturally shielded areas – there are quite a few of those on the lowest levels – or he had indeed found the crystal skull, and it is interfering with the scanners somehow.”

“Is that even possible?” Picard asked.

She shrugged in reply. “We haven’t got any empiric data about the supposed powers of the skull to either prove or reject that possibility. We can try to use the internal comm system to reach the Commander, though; and it would be best if you spoke to him, Jean-Luc. It’s more likely that he’d listen to you than to anyone else.”

Picard agreed, and Dr Boudreau touched a few contact surfaces on the console that looked like gaudy fake gemstones. Apparently, the Ferengi had learned their questionable taste in adornments from their Faran overlords, somewhere in the distant past.

“You can speak now,” she said. “Your words will be transmitted to every still functional part of the city, so make sure that you don’t give the Ferengi any clues or our whereabouts.”

Picard nodded in understanding and raised his voice a bit, so that the comm system would pick it up.

“Picard to Riker. Commander, report to _T-centralen_ immediately, so that we can begin with the negotiations!”

At first there was no answer. Then his comm badge beeped.

“Worf to Captain Picard.”

He touched the badge. “Mr Worf, where is Commander Riker?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” the Klingon admitted unhappily. “I last saw him fifteen minutes ago, just outside _Solna Centre_. The Ferengi…”

“… are still looking for the two of you on a different level,” Picard interrupted. “Meet us at _Solna Centre_ , Lieutenant. We’ll have to search the tunnels for him. Hopefully, we’ll find him before the Ferengi do.”

Worf acknowledged his orders and signed off. Picard looked at Boudreau. “What is the shortest way to _Solna Centre_?”

“The emergency transporters,” she replied. “But they’re not always reliable. The system has a bug we weren’t able to find in all the years we spent here.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Picard said, “but we have no choice. You, Commander Data and I will take the transporters. Counselor Troi and the security officers will take the longer route, in case either Commander Riker or Lieutenant Worf needs back-up. Counselor, you do have the record of the route down to _Solna Centre_ , don’t you?”

“Of course, Captain, courtesy of Data,” the Betazoid gestured to the two security guards. “This way…”

As soon as they were gone, Dr Boudreau led Picard and Data to an open niche opposite the escalators. She touched the instrumental panel inside it, and the panel started blinking in every colour of the rainbow and beyond. She chose a pattern, and in the next moment they vanished from the niche, only to reappear in a similar one at _Solna Centre_ , feeling vaguely nauseous… with the exception of Data, of course.

“Rough ride,” Picard commented, and she nodded in agreement.

“It always is. At least this time it brought us to the right destination.”

“ _This time_?” Picard didn’t like the sound of that at all.

She shrugged. “As I said; it’s not very reliable. Half the times we ended up in random places all over the city; sometimes even in the uncharted ones. That’s why we never liked to use it. Getting lost in this underground maze…”

“Could we scan for Commander Riker from here?” Picard asked.

She shrugged again. “We can certainly try, since the technology is available. It depends on where he is at the moment, though. As I said: there are many naturally shielded areas here, due to the geological constitution of the planet.”

“Let’s give it a try,” Picard said. 

She activated a console similar to the one in _T-centralen_ to run another scan… and came up with almost nothing.

“I can read a single human lifesign nearby,” she said after a short while, “but I cannot get a precise location, just a vague direction. If it is Commander Riker, he must be somewhere in Section 4/B Gamma… but that is approximately two thousand four hundred square metres, with a lot of rooms, and corridors leading in several directions.”

“It’s still a start,” Picard said. “How do we get to Section 4/B Gamma?”

She gestured to the left. “Through the third tunnel from here.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It had been a calculated risk to part ways with Worf, especially while the odd Ferengi and his trained gorillas were hunting them, Riker knew. But he _had_ to take that risk. He had to consult the skull before he’d choose the best route of action.

Not only did he have to eliminate the threat represented by the Ferengi. He also had to take precautions that the skull wouldn’t be taken from him. That simply couldn’t be allowed. He had to keep the skull safe.

Fortunately, he could count on the skull to assist him by making the right choice. It was amazing, the knowledge stored in that thing, and how easy it was to access it. A bit like the ease with which Data could access any random computer, in spite of their age and origins.

He found a short maintenance tunnel near _Solna Centre_ – he didn’t dare to move away from there much – where he could sit down for a moment with the skull. As soon as he held it in both hands, he could feel the warmth prickling his fingertips and spreading through his fingers, his arms, all the way to his brain within seconds. 

It was… simply overwhelming. Like relaxing in a hot tub; only it came with a stimulating, revigorating effect. Small wonder that an old woman like Dr Boudreau had not wanted to give it up. A matron like her wouldn’t want a young consort to break free from her thrall.

The memory of how he’d tried to woo her, how he’d made a fool of himself – and got rejected – before he’d have mastered the skull filled him with humiliation… and hatred. He wasn’t surprised, though. She’d had the skull for much longer, had worked with it, and presumably learned many of its secrets. He’d have to be careful with her when they met again. He was growing accustomed to the ways the skull communicated, but he wasn’t its master yet.

He pushed that thought away, focusing on the Ferengi problem. There _had_ to be a solution. A _Marauder_ -class vessel was a threat, even for the _Enterprise_ , but like all ships, it had to have a weakness that he could exploit.

Or the Ferengi commanding it could have one.

He felt the solution at his fingertips when Picard’s voice, sounding through the city’s intercom system, broke his concentration.

“Picard to Riker. Commander, report to _T-centralen_ immediately, so that we can begin with the negotiations!”

Riker pulled a face. The last thing he wanted was to face the Ferengi without the necessary precautions. But he knew he could not put Picard off much longer; less so if Dr Boudreau was with him. The two were old friends; it was possible that the captain was already under the thrall of that horrible woman.

He couldn’t risk them laying hand on the skull, though. After a moment of hesitation, he placed the artefact back into the leather shoulder bag and hid the bag in something looking like a tool cupboard. It _was_ risky to leave it behind like this, but not as risky as to have it within the reach of Dr Boudreau… _or_ the captain.

He closed the tool cupboard, wishing there were a way to seal it; then he braced himself and returned to _Solna Centre_ , from where it was easiest to get up to the main dispatch centre.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the examination room of the _Enterprise_ ’s sickbay, Chief Medical Officer Beverly Crusher was looking down at her newest patient in concern. The patient was a middle-aged Centaurian male, a member of the particularly dark-skinned, red-eyed, hairless _mo'ari_ population of Alpha Centauri IV – a species well-adapted to a life in hot, dry climates, which was probably the reason why he’d been selected for the expedition. 

Dr Selar and Ensign Tarses, who had accompanied him from the planet’s surface, had already raised the diagnostic arch over his biobed and were now checking his readings.

“Multiple fractures of limbs, ribs and vertebrae,” Dr Selar listed the fractured bones for the medical protocol. “A perforated lung and a bruised liver. Internal breading in the abdominal cavity and a third-grade concussion. No visible brain damage.”

“Blood pressure is low, though not yet in the red zone,” Ensign Tarses added. “He is stable enough for an emergency operation if necessary.”

“It _will_ be necessary,” Dr Selar said. “The broken bones can be knitted without laying the breaks open, but we will have to remove the blood from the abdominal cavity and re-inflate his lungs. I suggest an immediate operation to prevent any further strain on the already damaged inner organs _and_ the risk of an infection.”

“Agreed,” Dr Crusher said. “Have the operation theatre prepared and call in Nurse Ogawa to assist me. I’ll need the two of you there as well, for the proper Starfleet protocol. Regulations, you know. This can become a very unpleasant case, unrelated to the outcome of the operation.”

The Vulcan nodded and did as she’d been asked, with the competent assistance of Ensign Tarses. Less than ten minutes later the patient was lying in the sterile area of the operation theatre, ready to be cut open. Before Dr Crusher could have activated the laser scalpel, though, he came to for a single moment, bolting upright and stared at them with wide, unseeing eyes.

“The crystal skull!” he cried. “That woman… that woman must be stopped!”

In the next moment he fell back onto the operation table, losing consciousness again.

The two doctors exchanged baffled looks… well, as baffled as Vulcans were capable of in Selar’s case.

“What could he have meant with _that_?” Nurse Ogawa asked.

Dr Crusher shrugged and switched on the laser scalpel.

“I have no idea,” she confessed. “Let’s start with the operation now, or else he won’t be able to explain it to us later.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Entering _Solna Centre_ Riker was a little surprised to see Picard and Dr Boudreau already waiting for him; he managed not to show it, though. He wished he’d had more time to work on his plan but he was used to think on his feet and had confidence that he could make them work anyway.

“Captain,” he said. “You’ve been looking for me?”

“I expected to find you in _T-centralen_ without _having_ to look for you, Riker,” the captain answered, his displeasure clear, but he was interrupted by a very agitated Dr Boudreau.

“Commander,” she demanded. “Is it true what I’ve heard regarding the crystal skull and the Ferengi? Do you have it? And were you careless enough to reveal to them that you do?”

Riker gave her a falsely reassuring smile. “No need to worry, Doctor. I’ve everything under control here.”

“Have you?” Picard asked doubtfully. “It seems to me that you are taking unnecessary risks. I want some answers, Number One, and I want them _now_. What game are you playing here?”

“No games, Captain,” Riker answered, sounding honest enough. “I agreed to negotiate with the Ferengi about the crystal skull – and about other possibly valuable artefacts found in the city – to make us time enough to prepare for a fight. But only the two of us and Data will be involved in those negotiations. No security; and no Betazoids. They’re incapable of reading Ferengi anyway.”

Picard knew that, of course. It surprised him, however, that Riker would want to keep Troi away from the negotiations. Was he worried that the Ferengi would not keep their word and didn’t want to risk the safety of an old friend… an ex-love interest? Or did he have other reasons he wasn’t willing to reveal?

“What about me?” Dr Boudreau asked. “You’ll need me and my knowledge of the city. And this is _my_ excavation, after all. If you’re going to sell my founds to the Ferengi, I think I should at least be present.”

Riker gave her that false smile again. “Of course you’ll be joining us, Doctor. You are the expert here. I’d hate to give the Ferengi anything of true value.”

“You shouldn’t be considering giving them _anything_ ,” she returned angrily. “You haven’t been entitled to dispose over the artefacts found in the city.”

“Perhaps not,” Riker allowed. “But in case you haven’t noticed, Doctor, I’m trying to save our lives without having the _Enterprise_ damaged. Now, we should be going if we want to catch Luug alone, while Mr Worf and his security team keeps those Kakiri warriors occupied.”

Picard still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I know you usually know what you’re doing, Will, but I’d have liked if you’d discussed with me this plan of yours in advance,” he said. “Have you thought it through properly?”

“Aye, Captain,” Riker replied confidently. “Advanced tactical training, remember? They’ve prepared us for situations like this. Let’s return to the main dispatch centre and see if we can find the Ferengi executive officer, shall we? Mr Worf and his group can join us later.”

Picard hesitated for a moment. He emphatically disliked getting into a situation when he didn’t have all the details, but Riker didn’t seem to be able to tell them more… not yet, at least.

“Very well,” he finally said. “We’ll do it your way, Number One. Let’s hope your plan works out.”

“Oh, I’m fairly certain that it will,” unlike his captain, Riker didn’t seem to have the slightest doubt. “Follow me. There’s an escalator, two corridors to the left, that will take us directly to the first level. We’ve found it by accident; it comes in very handy.”

“Strange; we didn’t know about that,” Dr Boudreau frowned.

“It’s a bit away from the main traffic routes,” Riker explained. “Must have been used by the maintenance workers.”

“Perhaps,” Dr Boudreau wasn’t convinced and didn’t even try to hide her doubts. “It’s still odd that we haven’t found it in all the years.”

“Perhaps you didn’t take a close enough look,” Riker returned, heading out from _Solna Centre_ already. “Come now, we don’t have the time to dawdle!”

The others followed him, although a little reluctantly, to a side corridor that supposedly led to the maintenance escalators. When they entered the third forking of corridors and tuned to the right, into what was a long, narrow and obviously empty room, Data stopped and produced a very convincing frown.

“There are no escalators, Commander,” he stated the obvious. “This is a _cul-de-sac_ ; a dead end.”

“Quite literally, Mr Data,” Riker grinned like a shark.

He was standing next to the somewhat confused android, and now his hand shot out, unexpectedly and without forewarning, and hit the deactivation switch on the small of Data’s back.

“I’m sorry, Pinocchio,” he added, when the android dropped to the floor like a puppet, the strings of which had been cut.

Then, before Picard could have recovered from his shock, he pulled out his phaser that had been set to heavy stun and shot the captain.

Dr Boudreau looked at him with an expression that could have been respect… or repulsion, depending on one’s point of view.

“That was quick thinking – and quick acting, Commander,” she said, sounding impressed. “Now we can make that the skull and its secrets remain safe between the two of us.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Riker answered with an ugly sneer.

Then he stunned her, too, not really caring how hard she would hit the stone floor.

Collecting the comm badges from their uniforms as well as their phasers, he left the dead-end area. Setting Picard’s phaser to overload, he first charred the communicators, then placed the phaser on the threshold of the room and ran away as fast as he could.

He was already two corridors away when he heard the explosion, and then the rumble of stones as the cave-in effortlessly sealed the whole tunnel and everyone within.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Troi, Worf and the security team had almost reached the main dispatch centre when they felt the faint tremors of an explosion beneath their feet.

“What was that?” the Klingon growled.

Ensign Baldor consulted her tricorder. She was a tall, wiry woman, in her mannerism very similar to a Vulcan. Also, as her family had defected to Vulcan several generations previously, she didn’t have the characteristic eyebrow ridges most modern Romulans sported, due to the genetic engineering that had spread across the Star Empire during the last century.

“It seems that there has been some sort of explosion, sir,” she reported. “Approximately four levels beneath us. It is hard to get in precise readings because of all the interference.”

Worf scowled unhappily. He didn’t trust Romulans, not even if they were the progeny of deflectors and had been born and raised on Vulcan, ingesting the traditional Vulcan values.

What was Baila _thinking_ , sending Baldor down here?

“Cause?” he growled.

The Romulan didn’t seem to be particularly intimidated, which only annoyed him more.

“Inconclusive, sir,” she replied. “It could have been a bomb, or a natural cave-in. Some areas might be unstable; the deeper we go, the more so. In any case, one of the tunnels seems to be inaccessible now.”

“We should go down and see what’s happened,” Ensign Daro suggested.

But Troi shook her head. “No; we’re supposed to wait for Commander Riker here. We shouldn’t get separated until we have more data. _Then_ we can decide what we should do.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Riker stepped out of one of the side tunnels, with a leather bag on his shoulder. “We’ve been betrayed. The Ferengi have managed to get another team of those Kakiri warriors down to the planet; ant they murdered Captain Picard, Doctor Boudreau and destroyed Data. We’re outgunned and outnumbered and have no alternative than to beam back to the _Enterprise_ ; at least for the time being.”

“We can’t allow the Ferengi to get away with this!” Worf protested.

“Oh, we won’t, Mr Worf, don’t worry about that,” Riker answered grimly. “But we’ll have to regroup and work out a good strategy first; I’m counting on your tactical expertise with that.”

“Of course, sir,” the Klingon was clearly flattered by the request.

“What about the bodies?” Ensign Daro asked. “Are we leaving them behind? We should retrieve them, for a proper funeral.”

“We will; later,” Riker assured him. “But they’re in that collapsed tunnel, and we can’t afford the time to dig them out right now. Once the Ferengi are dealt with, we’ll come back for them.”

“What about their comm badges?” Daro suggested. “They’re only four levels deeper than we are. The transporter should be able to lock onto their communicators and beam them directly into the morgue.”

“Afraid not,” Riker said. “Their comm badges have been charred by disruptor fire. We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way later. Now we must get back to the _Enterprise_ , for our own safety; and to prepare the ship for battle.”

Reluctantly, the others agreed with him – although Troi seemed concerned about the idea of a battle with the Ferengi ship – and, after reaching the main area of T-centralen, they beamed back to the ship.

Riker ordered everyone to return to their duties but stopped Troi just outside the bridge before doing so himself.

“Deanna,” he said in a low voice. “There is something I want to speak to you of. Feelings I want to express that I’ve never been able to express before. Will you give me the chance?”

“This is hardly the right moment for such things, Will,” she warned him. “The crew will be in shock, as soon as they learn about the death of the captain… and of Data. They’ll need me to help them with the grieving process. I’m afraid I’ll be quite busy in the immediate future.”

“I’ll need you, too,” Riker said, looking at her earnestly. “We’ll all be grieving.”

“I know,” she said, her jewel-like eyes becoming soft and compassionate. “I’ll help you as well as I can.”

“I know you will,” he kissed her hand with old-fashioned flourish. “Go and do your thing for the rest of the crew; we’ll catch up later.”

And with that, he entered the bridge, leaving her standing in the corridor and looking after him thoughtfully.


	6. Suspicions, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ensign Tess Allenby, like all other _Enterprise_ personnel, is a canon character.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – SUSPICIONS, PART 1**

The bridge was in uproar when Riker entered it, mostly due to Worf being absolutely furious at what had happened with the Ferengi. The rest of the bridge crew seemed more shocked, basically just reacting to his fury. LaForge was relieved to see the First Officer return and vacated the command chair hurriedly for him.

“Take over the conn, Mr LaForge,” Riker ordered. “In the upcoming battle we’ll need our best pilot, and that’s still you.”

LaForge obediently switched places with Ensign Tess Allenby. The young, blonde woman seemed shocked by Riker’s statement.

“ _Battle_ , Commander?” she echoed, looking as if she’d faint.

As a trained Starfleet officer, she wasn’t prone to melodrama as a rule, but the possibility of an all-out battle, right after the shocking news of the captain's and the Second Officer’s demise, proved almost too much for somebody fresh out of the Academy. Training was one thing. Reality was worse. Much worse sometimes.

Riker gave her a displeased glare. “You don’t really believe they’d stand down just because we tell them to do so, do you, Ensign? Or that we’d leave the murder of Captain Picard unpunished?”

“No, sir,” the ensign replied meekly.

“Good,” Riker turned to the Klingon. “Mr Worf, hail the Ferengi vessel!”

Acknowledging the order with a wordless nod of his massive head, the Klingon opened a channel to ship-to-ship communication. A moment later the strangely dignified image of DaiMon Zaeb appeared on the main screen. The Ferengi, too, seemed furious but had himself much better under control than Worf.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his pale eyes ice cold. “Where is Captain Picard? What happened to our landing party? Our scanners picked up and explosion under the planet surface, and since then all communication with my executive officer has ceased.”

“You are asking _me_?” Riker snapped. “You so-called landing party of trained killers murdered Captain Picard, our science officer and the leader of the expedition. What did you hope from attacking Federation citizens? Or did you believe Starfleet would let its members be slaughtered unrevenged?”

“ _Revenge is profitless_ ,” DaiMon Zaeb replied coldly, quoting the 93rd Rule. “What are you talking about, _hew-man_? Our landing party never caught a glimpse of your captain till the explosion; or of that android officer of his,” he smiled thinly. “Or did you think we couldn’t find out who else beamed down into our city?”

“That city isn’t yours!” Riker said. “We found it first.”

“Perhaps,” the Ferengi allowed. “But _my_ ancestors used to live in it for countless millennia before that. Now, I would really hate to have your ship shot into a billion glowing pieces of metal – after all, as the 11th Rule says, _a dead customer can’t buy as much as a live one_ , and we generally prefer doing business to fighting battles. But I _will_ do so if you don’t back off. Izul is _our_ legacy, and we won’t allow the Federation to lay hand on that which is ours.”

He was deadly serious; they could all see that he was nothing like the often ridiculed, greedy little trolls as Ferengi were generally seen, especially by over-confident Starfleet officers. _And_ he doubtlessly had the means to live up to his threat.

Riker, however, remained unimpressed.

“You had better surrender within ten minutes, or _your_ ship will be destroyed,” he replied curtly and made the usual cut-throat gesture to Worf to close the channel. “Red alert, Mr Worf. Prepare the crew for battle.”

“Aye sir,” the Klingon said crisply, his dark eyes glowing with anticipation.

In the next moment the alarm klaxons began to howl, and the automated warning was transmitted all over the ship in the calm, emotionless female voice of the ship’s main computer.

“Red Alert. Red Alert. All personnel to battle stations. This is _not_ a drill. I repeat: this is _not_ a drill.”

The warning was repeated again and again, while nonessential personnel shut down their duty stations and returned to the protected areas, as they had done in countless battle drills. The bridge crew exchanged worried looks behind Riker’s back.

“The commander seems to have expected this confrontation,” Chief Gillespie whispered to Ensign Pavlick, who was standing next to him at the engineering stations.

“It’s worse than that; he seems to be _anticipating_ the imminent battle,” the attractive brunette replied in concern. “I don’t like this, Chief. There should have been a different solution.”

Gillespie shrugged his heavy shoulders. “It’s not our job to make the tactical decisions, Ensign. Our job is to keep the ship in one peace, no matter what, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Jean-Luc Picard came to with a blinding headache in complete darkness. Knowing the after affects of being hit by a phaser set to heavy stun from first-hand experience, he didn’t panic. At least not yet. Not before he’d get the full picture of their situation.

And afterwards he’d be too busy to even _think_ of panicking anyway.

He couldn’t see a thing, of course, but he could smell the burnt odour of a high-energy phaser discharge. _And_ he could taste dust on his tongue. 

No; it wasn’t dust. More like sand. Or powdered stone. Not as fine as dust by far, and it was filling his nostrils, too. That was _not_ good. Where did it come from?

He sneezed, and if clearing his nose had helped clearing his head, too, the memories began to return. Riker’s erratic behaviour… and his betrayal. How could _that_ have happened? Why would Riker turn against him; against everyone else? The executive officer did have his faults – being an incorrigible womanizer was just the most obvious of them – but there had never been any reason to doubt his loyalty. Until now.

This wasn’t like him at all. There had to be some alien influence at work; or some unknown alien device. It wouldn’t be the first time. If Riker had, indeed, found the crystal skull Annette had so vehemently denied to have ever seen…

He bolted upright and hissed a profanity in French as he hit his head on… something he couldn’t see in the darkness. He ignored the sharp pain and the warm, wet feeling of blood trickling down on the bruised side of his face. He had more important concerns at the moment.

He had to find Annette and see if she was all right. A phaser shot, set to heavy stun, was not something to be taken lightly, especially not for a centenarian. Fortunately, Annette – just like him – had an artificial heart. Her original one would have likely given out on her under such strain. 

Still, he had to check if she was still alive; and _then_ they’d have _words_. Because it was fairly clear that she hadn’t been completely honest with him.

First, however, they needed to get out of here. The air in the room was stale – though breathable – and full of dust or rather rumbled stone particles. That couldn’t be good for their lungs. Plus, he remembered how small and narrow the place seemed. They barely fit in. The breathable air wouldn’t last long, and Picard did not feel like dying from carbon dioxide poisoning.

He tapped his comm badge – only to discover that he didn’t have one anymore. Either he’d lost it when he fell, or Riker had removed it after knocking them all, so that the _Enterprise_ wouldn’t be able to localize them. 

Sadly, the second possibility seemed more likely. As a rule, comm badges didn’t fall off so easily. They had safety fastenings to prevent exactly that.

In either case, he needed some light; at least so much that he’d be able to check on Annette and Data, without hitting himself on sharp objects again. He felt around himself in the darkness and came, to his relief, upon a slim piece of lightweight metal that turned out to be a tricorder. It didn’t appear to be a Starfleet-issue one; was probably left behind by someone from the expedition, but it seemed intact.

After a few aborted efforts, she found the on/off switch, and in the weak glow of the instrument’s small screen he could make out the outlines of his surroundings.

There were two bodies lying nearby, one on each side. He randomly touched the one on his left; it was cool. The way lifeless objects take on the temperature of their surroundings.

Data, then. Good. Assuming that the android hadn’t suffered any serious damage, he could count on Data’s help. Searching for and finding the deactivation switch, he brought his Second Officer back online.

Data bolted upright and stared in front of himself, not noticing his surroundings; not yet anyway.

“Accessing diagnostic protocols,” he said in that monotone, mechanical voice he only used in diagnostic mode. “Unscheduled, irregular shutdown forty-three minutes and thirty two seconds previously. Full system reboot in five, four, three, two, one… return to default operative modus.”

He blinked a few times, turned his head – still in a somewhat jerky manner – and noticed Picard.

“Captain? What happened? Why was I deactivated?”

“I’m afraid Commander Riker has abused his intimate knowledge of your basic functions, Data,” Picard answered regretfully. “He deactivated you and shot me and Dr Boudreau to get away from us.”

“Why would he want to get away from us?” Data asked. “We were supposed to negotiate with the Ferengi…”

“It seems Mr Riker had other ideas,” Picard said dryly. “Can you help me find some light source in here? I need to check on Dr Boudreau; and then we need to assess our situation and get out of her before our oxygen supply runs out.”

“Theoretically, each room in the city should have emergency lights,” Data said, searching the room methodically. His artificial eyes saw well beyond the limits of the human spectrum. “Ah; this seems to be it. Hopefully, there still is some residual energy.”

He did something Picard couldn’t see, and in the next moment the room was filled with an eerie blue glow.

“That is the best I can do with these ten millennia old batteries, sir,” Data said apologetically. “ _If_ they are batteries at all.”

“Whatever they are, let’s hope they’ll keep working a little longer,” Picard replied. “I’ll see what I can do for Dr Boudreau; you try looking for a way out of here.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Having put the ship on continuing red alert, Riker ordered Worf to take the comm and retired to the captain’s ready room until further notice. He wanted badly to consult the skull but he did not dare to take it out. Not here where somebody could have come in at any given time.

And indeed, barely had he ordered a double strong _raktajino_ from the replicator – he needed something to keep him sharp and alert without the revigorating effect of accessing the skull – when the doorbell chimed.

“Come in, Deanna,” he called out, having an educated guess who it might be. 

And indeed, it was Deanna Troi who entered. He had feared this encounter ever since his return from Bolaxnu 7. It could have happened that she would have some sort of sense of dishonesty about him, even though her senses were limited compared with those of other Betazoids, due to her mixed heritage. But she had the advantage of having known him – intimately – for quite a few years and could have picked up something from him, despite the shielding effects of the skull.

She always could tell when he was lying. She had been able to tell that his career would always be more important for him than her, and that was why their relationship had not worked. Perhaps, with unfolding his full potential with the help of the skull, he’d be able to conquer her again. 

It couldn’t hurt to try. She was exquisite, and her ability to read other people’s feelings could come in handy for his future plans.

“What can I do for you, Deanna?” he asked.

“I wanted to speak with you about the situation,” she said. “To be honest, I’m not entirety sure that DaiMon Zaeb has ordered the murdering of Captain Picard. All I can sense from him are anger and confusion; neither triumph, nor guilt.”

“I thought Betazoids can’t read Ferengi, due to their anomalous brain structure,” Riker said.

“We cannot read their _thoughts_ ,” Troi clarified. “And I’m not a telepath myself, as you know. Sensing their emotions is a different matter, however. There are no such limitations, and I’m fairly certain that the news of Captain Picard’s death actually shocked and surprised DaiMon Zaeb. I don’t believe he was the one orchestrating this murder.”

Riker shrugged. ”Perhaps not; but that makes him no less responsible for what happened. He is their commanding officer; he should have had his subordinates better under control. We’ll see what he has from it. He chose the wrong man to mess with.”

Troi shook her head. “And picking a fight that might destroy both our ships would help the situation – how exactly? You really should consider if we can afford a battle right now, without Captain Picard on the bridge. He was the only Starfleet officer to have fought the Ferengi – and won. There are too many uncertain factors in this.”

“Don’t worry,” Riker said confidently. “The Ferengi won’t have any chance against us. I’ve learned a great deal from the Captain in these last years; I know how to deal with the grotesque little trolls.”

He moved over to embrace her in a reassuring manner but Troi stepped back, rejecting his advances.

“This is not the right time, Will,” she said disapprovingly. “My main concern at the moment is the problem at hand – the problem you have done nothing to dissolve so far – and the fact that Captain Picard is dead. Both these things – the threat of a potentially disastrous battle and the loss of the captain – are a great burden for the crew. Especially for the young ones with very little experience under their belts.”

“Then go and hold their hands,” Riker sneered. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“You should take the time,” Troi stood, her beautiful eyes cold. “Of all people, you should know better than to indicate that as ship’s counselor I’m just a glorified babysitter. I’m not only a therapist; I’m the legal expert aboard, with a degree of sociology, and I’ve been Captain Picard’s diplomatic aide for the last five years. I actually have the authority to remove you from command if I have the impression that you’re making unreasonable decisions. And I will do so if you force me.”

She turned and went to the door. On the threshold she looked back for a moment.

“Think about it, Will. Think carefully about the risks you’re willing – or can afford – to take. You won’t get another chance.”

With that, she left the room, leaving a furious Riker behind.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Without the help of a medkit – or, at least a medical tricorder – it took Picard and Data considerable effort to bring Doctor Boudreau back to consciousness. Even with the advantage of an artificial heart, the high energy discharge of Riker’s phaser had taken its toll on her system. Crossing the hundred-year-border was no longer such a rarity in the 24th century, but even with the progress of medical science, age did not left people untouched, even in this era.

For several minutes after coming to, she wasn’t even able to sit up; not without support in any case. And it took her even longer to start thinking clearly; or to speak coherently.

“How are you doing, Annette?” Picard asked in concern, as soon as she seemed more or less lucid again.

“Awful,” she admitted, her voice raspy. “I really should… stop getting shot. My heart... doesn’t take it well. It’s a… much older model than yours.”

“Perhaps you should consider getting a newer model,” Picard suggested.

She smiled tiredly. “Already tried, but… the rest of my body… can’t deal with the… the new technology. I’m an… an older model… myself.”

“Can you explain what happened?” Picard asked. “Why did my first officer turn on us? Has this something to do with that crystal skull that has been mentioned several times by now?”

She nodded. “The skull… is the case… of the problem.”

“And _you_ were the one who found it, weren’t you?” Picard realized. “You found it, but Will took it from you somehow.” She nodded again. “Why didn’t you tell me that you had it right away?”

She sighed. “It’s… not that simple. The skull… it’s dangerous, for… anyone but the Ferengi. And should they… lay hand on it, it… would be dangerous… for anyone else.”

She fell silent, clearly exhausted. Picard felt sorry for her; but he couldn’t afford to take her condition into consideration. They were clearly in grave danger, and so was perhaps the _Enterprise_ , too; he needed answers.

“Dangerous in _what_ way?” he pressed.

“The skull… is the Faran version of… of an artificial… intelligence,” she explained weakly. “A synthetic… crystalline life form. Its function was… to enable the Faran emperor… to tap into the memory… and knowledge of… of Doshin.”

“But Doctor, Doshin was not a single person,” Data reminded her. “ _Every Faran_ emperor was called Doshin. The words of the inthronization ritual indicate that each Doshin was considered the reincarnation of the previous ones. _All_ of them.”

Dr Boudreau nodded in agreement. Speech seemed to become increasingly difficult for her, but at least her mind was working properly again.

“And they all were… in a manner,” she said. “In the skull… are stored the… the memory engrams of… of every Faran emperor. There’s a room… deep down… where they could… could gain access to those… those memories… but only there…”

“Why?” Picard prompted. Her eyes fell closed.

“Harmonic… resonances,” she whispered. “Crystalline… technology is… unpredictable. Can overwhelm you… without the right environment… safeties… needed. The Faran… could resist better… their brains… Ferengi, too… I’ve tried… but it’s very hard…”

She lost consciousness again. Picard looked at Data questioningly.

“Could you make any sense of that, Data?”

The android nodded. “I believe so, Captain. As you know, Ferengi have an unusual, four-lobed brain construction…”

“Which is why Betazoids can’t read them, yes, I know;” Picard interrupted. Practically everyone was aware of that fact since Ambassador Lwaxana Troi’s most recent visit aboard the _Enterprise_. “The same is, apparently, true for Dopterians, who have similarly constructed brains. What does this have to do with us?”

“Well, Captain, as Dopteria was once part of the Faran Empire, we can assume that this particular brain structure is a phenomenon that was restricted to their area of space; _or_ a conscious effort on the side of the Faran to make related species more like themselves, with he help of genetic engineering,” Data explained.

Picard nodded thoughtfully. “Before we beamed down, Annette had mentioned something about the Faran and the Ferengi being the same genus, yet not the same species. She said Faran were to Ferengi like humans are to chimpanzees; and that the Ferengi warrior caste would be the equivalent of genetically enhanced gorillas.”

“If we wanted to stretch the analogy, we could consider the Dopterians to be the equivalents of bonobos or orang-utans,” Data agreed. “All different sorts of primates, genetically engineered to make the evolutionary leap to intelligent species, so that they could populate the colony worlds and serve the interests of the Faran Empire across a huge expense of space. While the majority of the Faran rarely left the safety and comfort of Izul.”

“Until the subtle changes of the planet’s orbit around the Bolaxnu sun – caused by the enormous mass and the strong gravitational pull of Bolaxnu 8 – led to dramatic changes in Izul’s climate; changes that rendered the planet inhabitable for them,” Picard finished the thought.

The android nodded. “Yes, sir. Considering the biological similarities of the three species, and the fact that both Ferenginar and Dopteria are cold, wet worlds with constantly clouded skies, one can postulate the theory that Bolaxnu 7 – or Izul, if you want to use its indigenous name – must have been a similar planet once. Which would explain why the Faran would abandon it and move on to Bunol, as Ferenginar was called by them.”

“Sounds plausible,” Picard allowed. “But why would they leave the skull behind?”

“I cannot offer any plausible answer to that, sir,” Data replied. “But my theory would be that they did not want it to fall into foreign hands. With the fall of the Empire, there was no need for any more emperors; and perhaps they considered the accumulated knowledge dangerous in the hands of anyone else; even their own people.”

“And even more dangerous in the hands of a human, whose brain is not suited to deal with it,” Picard said. “It would be like a drug; it would control a human, make him the mere tool of the long-dead emperors.”

Data nodded again. “Yes, Captain. As the skull is an artificial intelligence, an artificial life form on a crystalline basis, it probably tried to follow its original programming as soon as it made contact with an organic brain again, after millennia of passivity. It would probably do the same with any intelligent being, it is merely a coincidence that Doctor Boudreau was the one to make contact; perhaps other archaeologists, too. And then Commander Riker, of course.”

“Why didn’t it take over Annette completely, though?” Picard asked. “She is more or less still himself, while Riker seems to have undergone a dramatic personality change.”

“Insufficient data,” the android replied. “However, Dr Boudreau did mention an underground area with safety protocols that can make accessing the skull less dangerous. Also, the fact that she is a woman might play a role.”

“How that?” Picard asked doubtfully.

“Ferengi are notorious of keeping their females in the status of cattle,” Data replied. “Perhaps it has a deeper reason than just them being ‘chauvinistic pigs’, as, I think, Lieutenant Yar used to call them,” they both smiled briefly at the memory of Tasha Yar; then Data continued. “Perhaps in the Faran Empire females – or _certain_ females, for example the ones related to the emperor – had a privileged status and were particularly hated, which, as a belated reaction, caused the current social division by gender in modern Ferengi society.” 

“We know too little about their society to form a working theory,” Picard said.

“Unfortunately, that is very true, Captain,” the android agreed.

“Annette also said that the overthrown ruling class of Ferenginar was actually the last remnants of the Faran people; and that DaiMon Zaeb is probably one of them,” Picard told him.

“That would explain why he is so interested in getting back the skull and keeping everyone away from Izul,” Data pointed out.

“Please elaborate,” Picard said.

“They may have left the planet voluntarily, and it certainly could not support them again, but it _is_ possible that they returned there from time to time during the last millennia to take raw materials or technology that could prove useful in exile,” Data explained. “Especially in the last two hundred years, since they had been banned from Ferenginar. They would not want the Federation to lay hand on the skull; unlike them, several Federation species could easily survive on a desert world and profit from Izul’s accumulated knowledge.”

“But they would want even less the Ferengi Alliance to lay hand on it,” Picard said slowly. “No more than _we_ would want our greatest cities or space stations being taken over by chimpanzees, just because they could operate the technology.”

“The risk would be even greater in their case, sir,” Data said. “Due to their similarly structured brains, the Ferengi might be able to use the skull as it was intended to be used; and they have adapted to living in foreign climates since the fall of the Empire. Genetic engineering, if executed carefully, can prove an advantage; and the Ferengi didn’t have their Eugenic Wars.”

“And should the Ferengi manage to gain access to the potential of Izul, with the help of the skull, that could change the balance of power in the entire quadrant,” Picard closed his eyes in pain as the thought occurred to him.

“Correct, sir,” Data said simply.

“One more reason for us to get out of here as soon as possible,” Picard said.

“But how, sir?” Data asked. “The only entrance is sealed by what it seems tons of rubble.”

Picard shrugged. “There was an archaeological expedition working in this place for years. I’m sure if we look around us closely we’ll find a laser shovel or something that will help us to remove the rubble. Let’s start searching; Dr Boudreau won’t last much longer here.”


	7. Suspicions, Part 2

**CHAPTER 07 – SUSPICIONS, PART 2**

The operation n Dr Roark took longer than Dr Crusher had expected. The _Mo’ari_ was a great deal tougher and more resilient than any human she’d ever had on her operation table – he _had_ to, in order to survive in the extremely hostile environment of Alpha Centauri IV – but his injuries had been serious. 

The fact that his physiology reacted differently to standard medication than that of a human – rather unpredictably, in fact – only complicated things. The insights of Dr Selar, whose species had also had to adapt to life on a desert world, proved a life-saver, several times. Literally.

Proving the extraordinary resilience of his species, Dr Roark – who, like other Centaurian officers, used only one of his four names in his interactions with humans, the other three being near impossible to pronounce for foreigners – came to less than an hour after his operation and reacted with obvious panic to the unfamiliar surroundings. Especially as he realized that he couldn’t move.

“Easy,” Nurse Ogawa said soothingly. “You’ve been put under a restriction field. You must not move, or you’d reinjure yourself. You’ve just had a series of complicated operations.”

“Where… am I?” he asked hoarsely.

She gave him a spoonful of ice chips to soothe his raw throat.

“You’re aboard the USS _Enterprise_ , in the Intensive Care Unit. Don’t worry; you’re quite safe here. Dr Crusher has repaired your injured organs and your bones are knitting as they’re supposed to. That will cause some discomfort for a while, I’m afraid, but in a few days, you’ll be as good as new.”

Aside from being a highly trained OP assistant, Nurse Ogawa also had the best bedside manner in the entire medical department. No-one could calm down panicking patients quite like she could. Her magic worked on Dr Roark like a charm, too.

Still, he wasn’t willing to rest just yet.

“Call… the doctor,” he said. “I must… tell him… something, right away. It’s… important.”

“ _Her_ ,” Nurse Ogawa corrected automatically, no longer wondering why people, no matter what race, automatically assumed that a person of authority would be male. 

At least when they were speaking English, that is. She happened to know that in Vulcan the opposite was true. And in the various dialects spoken on Betazed.

Then she went to call Dr Crusher. It was better if she dealt with the man now, so that he’d calm down and rest properly.

“Doctor, the patient is conscious and wants to speak with you,” she told her, after having found her in the neurology lab.

Dr Crusher nodded absently. She was consulting the readouts of Dr Roark’s complete medical scan, taken by the diagnostic arch before the operation.

“Look at these brainwave patterns,” she said to Dr Selar. “Can you spot anything unusual?”

The Vulcan doctor studied the graphics for a moment, one of her eyebrows moving slowly but steadily upwards.

“They show unusually high brain activity,” she then said. “As if the patient had been under the influence of potent stimulants.”

“And yet his blood work came up negative,” Dr Crusher said thoughtfully.

Dr Selar made that peculiar eyebrow twitch that was the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug – if one knew how to interpret it.

“Chemicals are not the only way to stimulate brain activity,” she reminded her commanding officer. “It could have been done electrically, or even telepathically. We need more data about the medical history of Dr Roark to make a reliable diagnosis.”

“Did you get his medical file from Starfleet?” Dr Crusher asked.

The Vulcan shook her head. “He is a civilian, Doctor. We cannot gain access to his file without his express permission.”

“It’s a good thing, then, that he apparently wants to talk to us,” Dr Crusher said. “Come with me; let’s hear what he has to say.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The confrontation with Deanna had rained much of Riker’s waning strength. He needed to connect with the skull if he wanted to hold out until he’d dealt with the Ferengi threat, _and_ he needed to plan his next move carefully.

He needed to find an ultimate solution for the problem. Because he knew that even if he destroyed DaiMon Zaeb’s ship – and he _was_ determined to do so, no matter what; he couldn’t allow any information about the skull’s existence reach Ferenginar – other ships would come, eventually. He needed to find a way to make Izul unreachable for the Ferengi. Permanently.

He touched his comm badge. “Riker to Work. Lieutenant, I need to be alone for the next thirty minutes. See that no-one disturbs my concentration. No calls, either; unless the Ferengi start firing at us.”

“Understood, sir,” the Klingon acknowledged.

Riker closed his eyes in relief. Finally. He took the skull out of its leather bag, sat down behind Picard’s desk – _his_ desk now – and too it into both hands, focusing on the barely visible golden glow in its centre. Soon, he could feel the familiar warmth spreading through his fingers. He felt the strength return to his body, the excitement and stimulation in his mind.

It was like turning the pages of a digitalized encyclopaedia. Three-dimensional images of people and places he had never seen before took form in his mind; and somehow he recognized them nonetheless. Densely written pages in a language he didn’t know, written with letters he couldn’t read turned slowly before his mind’s eye, and he understood their meaning nonetheless. Secrets of the lost city of Izul opened up to him in a depth he’d never dreamed of.

After a while, the images stopped and the inner glow of the skull filled his mind entirely, blending out everything else. But it didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t need the images anymore. 

He didn’t need the _city_ anymore. Everything he needed was stored safely in the skull. And only he could access it.

The skull had also revealed to him what he needed to eliminate the Ferengi threat for good.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Dr Crusher looked down at her patient with an encouraging smile. “How are you feeling, Dr Roark?”

“It hurts,” the Centaurian whispered.

Dr Crusher glanced at Nurse Ogawa, who shrugged apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Doctor; we’ve administered the highest doses of painkillers that we dared, but the knitting of bones is a painful process. Especially with the specific _Mo’ari_ bone structure.”

“It… doesn’t matter,” Dr Roark said hoarsely. “I’m alive; that’s what counts. Despite… her efforts.”

“ _Whose_ efforts?” Dr Crusher asked.

The patient sighed and paused, trying to gather his strength before launching into a lengthy explanation.

“Annette,” he finally said.

“You mean Dr Boudreau?” Dr Crusher clarified, more than a little surprised that the man would be on first-name basis with the expedition leader who could have easily been his grandmother.

Somehow Dr Boudreau didn’t strike her as somebody who would get all chummy with her subordinates any more than Captain Picard did.

Dr Roark closed his eyes briefly. “She… pushed me… into the pit where… I was injured.”

Frankly, both Crusher and Selar found _that_ a little hard to believe. Like his people in general, the _Mo’ari_ was a tall man of wiry strength. Dr Boudreau could have barely reached the middle of his chest. Of course, if she caught him unaware… it still didn’t seem likely.”

“Why would she do something like that?” Dr Crusher asked doubtfully.

“The skull… the crystal skull… she thought I’d take it from her,” the archaeologist whispered. “She is… obsessed with it. Sit with it in the… ceremonial chamber… all the time.”

“Not anymore,” Dr Selar said calmly. “It appears that Dr Boudreau is dead.”

The man stared at them with wide-eyed shock. “Dead? How? And the skull?”

Dr Crusher found his priorities a little odd. What was it about the stupid skull anyway? Did it exist at all? And why did everybody seem to be obsessed with it?

“According to Commander Riker, she was murdered by the Ferengi landing party,” she said slowly. “We never got to see anything even vaguely reminding of a crystal skull, though.”

“Then your… commander… must have it,” the man sighed.

The two doctors exchanged doubtful looks.

“He does seem to have changed lately,” Selar finally admitted. “He never showed such high levels of aggression before.”

“It is… the skull,” Dr Roark murmured. “The longer… he has it, the more… will he get… under the influence… of it.”

“Are you sure?” Dr Crusher asked, but the patient had already fallen asleep again.

“We should let him rest,” Nurse Ogawa suggested, and Dr Crusher nodded in agreement.

“Keep an eye on him, Alyssa, and call me if there are any changes,” she then turned to Selar. “I believe this calls for a private meeting with Counselor Troi.”

“That could prove useful,” the Vulcan agreed. “However, I would not suggest holding it here, in your office. Commander Riker can access it directly from the bridge, and it would be tactically unwise to alert him before we can figure out what exactly is going on here. Do it in your quarters. I shall keep things running smoothly here for you.”

“But I’d like to have you on that meeting,” Dr Crusher said. “Your insights could be helpful.”

“You can contact me through a private channel, if necessary,” the Vulcan pointed out. “But one of us should remain here and make sure nothing untoward happens to Dr Roark; in case he was telling us the truth.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Dr Crusher had to admit that that was true and contacted Troi to meet her in her quarters. Deanna apparently had her own suspicions to share because they arrived at Beverly’s door at the same time. 

They were both surprised to find a clearly devastated Wesley at home, though.

“What happened?” Beverly asked her son. “You were supposed to work in Engineering today, weren’t you?”

The young man nodded miserably. “Ensign Clancy says that the captain is dead… and Data?” he then said. “Is it true?”

“That is what Commander Riker told us, yes,” his mother replied. “And we’re trying to figure out what really happened. But why aren’t you in Engineering?”

“I… lost it a bit when I heard it,” Wesley admitted. “Ensign Clancy said I ought to calm down and can go back tomorrow.”

The next day would have been Wesley’s day off. But he’d always looked up to Captain Picard as to a second father and to Data as to an older brother he never had. Deanna appreciated Ensign Clancy’s sensibility to give him some time to grieve.

“Perhaps a fresh point of view would do us good,” the counselor said. “Let us sit down and put together what we know. Hopefully, that will help us to get the bigger picture.”

The Crushers agreed, and the three of them made themselves comfortable in the living area of Beverly’s quarters to share whatever piece of information they had gained. 

Deanna repeated her conversation with Riker in as much detail as she could remember – and she _did_ have an excellent auditive memory, much better than the average human – and they all agreed that Riker’s reactions were uncharacteristic for him… to say the least.

“Did you feel anything unusual from him?” Beverly asked.

“It’s hard to tell,” Deanna replied thoughtfully. “Will is always extremely focused during a dangerous mission – bordering on obsession, which is exactly what I’ve been feeling from him, ever since he returned from the planet.”

“But it _is_ possible that he is under the influence of an alien artefact, isn’t it?” Beverly asked.

Deanna nodded. “I can’t rule out that possibility, no.”

“In that case you’d be probably interested in what I have learned from my patient,” and Beverly explained her what she had discovered with the help of Dr Roark.

Deanna listened to her with great interest, and then nodded in understanding.

“This fits with the changes in Will’s behaviour,” she said. “He must, indeed, be under the influence of _something_ – whether it is a crystal skull or some other outside influence, it remains to be seen.”

“Bearing all the evidence in mind,” Wesley said with renewed hope, “is there a possibility that perhaps the captain is still alive on the planet somewhere? Alien influence or not, I can’t believe that Commander Riker would murder the captain in cold blood.”

“We know there was an explosion under the surface,” Beverly said slowly. “Perhaps they are just trapped down there, in some caved-in tunnel.”

“Again, that possibility can’t be ruled out,” Deanna agreed. “But how could we find proof?”

“Could you tune in to the planet?” Beverly suggested. “As far as we know, the only ones alive down there are the Ferengi. If you can sense any other life, that must be the captain; or Dr Boudreau.”

“It’s a shame you can’t sense Data,” Wesley added. “He’s the one most likely to survive a cave-in.”

“It will be a wonder if I can sense _anything_ from the planet, with over a thousand people aboard _and_ more than three hundred Ferengi, all of whom are much closer,” Deanna replied. “It’s as if I’d try to hear a single bird singing on the other end of a huge garden while standing in the middle of a crowded ball room. But I’ll give it a try.”

“Should we leave you alone?” Beverly asked, but Deanna shook her head.

“No; I can use the support. Just stay quiet, so that I won’t get distracted. I need to focus very hard.”

The Crushers nodded in understanding and Deanna closed her eyes, working on shutting out the crew, deck by deck. It was a time-consuming method and an exhausting one, too – she knew she’d have the mother of all headaches afterwards – but the only way to ensure that no unwanted outside influence would break her concentration once she’d turned her focus to the planet.

When she’d finally pushed the awareness of the crew into the background of her conscious mind, she did the same with the crew of the _Izuru_ , and then with the Ferengi landing party on the planet surface. Clearing the more active part of her sixth sense, she reached out to the depths of the planet… and found something.

A life sign. Just a single one, and too weak to be identified, whether because of the pressure of too many other presences on her mind or because it was already weakening.

“I can definitely sense that there’s life down there,” she said, opening her eyes. “ _One_ life sign, somewhere under the surface. But I can’t tell if it’s the captain or Dr Boudreau; _or_ if it’s human to begin with.”

“Let’s hope it is,” Beverly said. “And if we’re lucky, perhaps Data is there, too. We _must_ act as if they were there and alive; what do we have to lose?”

“A lot, actually, if Will catches us going behind his back,” Deanna warned her. "In his current state of mind I won’t dare to predict his reactions.”

Beverly nodded; then she looked at her son.

“Wesley, would it be possible to contact the planet without alerting the bridge?” she asked. “I know Will said the communicators of the captain and Data had been destroyed, but the expedition must have had its own comm station. They had sporadic subspace contact with the Starbases along the Federation border, after all.”

The young man thought about the problem for a moment.

“I believe I’ll be able to bypass the main communication controls,” he then said. “However, there’s no assurance that a move like that wouldn’t be detected. Not with Geordi and Worf on the bridge and Chief Pendleton on duty.”

“I know,” his mother said unhappily. “We still have to risk it. Just make sure you don’t get caught, all right?”

“All right, Mom,” Wesley grabbed a toolkit from his room and set off on his own.

“As for me,” Deanna said, “I’ll return to the bridge and do everything I can to keep Will under control.”

“Good luck,” Beverly replied worriedly.

Then she, too, left her quarters and returned to sickbay. She wanted to relieve Selar, so that the Vulcan could watch over Dr Roark exclusively. Who knew if to the idea of silencing the only person who knew about the existence of the crystal skull wouldn’t occur to Riker?

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In his luxurious quarters aboard the _Izuru_ , DaiMon Zaeb was pondering over his choices; none of which seemed particularly promising at the moment.

He’d just consulted with his executive officer, who was still down on the planet’s surface with his highly efficient group of Kakiri Warriors, and Luug shame-facedly admitted that the _hew-man_ Riker had outwitted them and escaped back to his own ship – presumably with the skull still in his possession.

And now the Federation ship and the _Izuru_ were facing each other with raised shields, weapons on the ready, waiting for the other one to lose his nerves and open fire. In this particular game firing the first shot would mean defeat, diplomatically, and Zaeb possessed a good enough pair of lobes to stay patient.

Too much was at stake; not the possession of the crystal skull alone but also the continuing chance of stripping Izul of raw materials, removable pieces of technology and accumulated knowledge. Things that had enabled them to survive in exile, ever since the mob had taken over _Ferengar_ , as the planet still should be properly called.

Originally the colony world Bunol, it was renamed Ferengar – _Faran World_ , in the old tongue – after they’d had to give up Izul and move their entire civilization there. Or what had still been left of it, after millennia of decay. The last outpost of their faded greatness.

Of course, the gremlins that had overthrown their rulers by sheer numbers had to rename the planet again. To _Ferenginar_! Pah! He snorted in disgust. A name that didn’t even have a proper meaning in late Faran; the language that still should have been spoken within the borders of the Alliance, instead of the primitive Pidgin they had cobbled together for themselves.

The thought that their former subjects, who might never have emerged from the now long-extinct animal kingdom of Izul without the help of genetic engineering provided by his ancestors could now lay their grubby paws on the planet itself filled him with barely controllable rage. That would be almost worse than leave Izul in the hand of the hew-mans.

 _Almost_.

A barely audible noise coming from his bedroom caught his ears. He turned around with his chair to look directly at his bride who had been delivered just weeks before he would be alerted that the Federation ship was on his route to Izul.

He allowed himself a small, content smile. Finding a female of undiluted Faran blood was a rare luck. He still could barely believe that his cousin Manion, who managed to rule his business empire from Starbase 80, acting under the very nose of Starfleet Security and a Vulcan station commander, had managed to find one for him.

Granted, she hadn’t been cheap. Pure-blooded females never were, as only with them could a Faran male hope to produce fertile children and prevent the total extinction of their species. Such females often got kidnapped as babies already, reached from family to family as children, always for a much higher price as previously, and then sold on auctions as soon as they had matured sexually.

This was a highly illegal practice, of course. The Ferengi Alliance didn’t condone slavery. Which didn’t mean that it wouldn’t be going on, when demand and offer met. And bride markets weren’t considered slavery anyway. They were a _necessity_.

Priell was no exception. The sum Manion had paid for her – from Zaeb’s account, of course – was worth a small moon. But Zaeb, having considerable interests in Manion’s business empire, could afford it, and he found it had been worth every single strip of latinum. Not only was she fertile – a fact that had been repeatedly proved by _very_ thorough medical tests, performed by his own doctor – she was also beautiful. She had small, delicate lobes, the large, ice blue eyes only pure-blooded Faran females would have, a small nose and perfectly sharpened teeth.

In fact, she was as close to the ideal female as anybody made of flesh and blood could come.

There had been problems at first, of course. Like all stolen female children, she’d been raised by common Ferengi families and kept deliberately ignorant. They had made her believe that she was stupid, like their own females, and in the first month she would only speak by rote, as if repeating something she’d been told many times but didn’t entirely understand.

Like that she didn’t remember things very well because she was female, instead of because her education had been neglected. Or that she had to remain at home and not wear clothes because she didn’t have lobes as well developed as males. Or that wearing clothes and doing business was a privilege for males only.

Well, that might be true for the common Ferengi; their females _were_ ugly and stupid. But the _Faran_ matrons of old had once been the driving force behind the Emperor’s throne: his mother, his aunts, his sisters and his wives held the true power on Izul and had been respected and feared by everyone.

Including Doshin himself, whose access to the crystal skull had depended on their goodwill and closely monitored by them when granted.

Of course, Priell hadn’t descended from any of those powerful matrons. The line of the emperors had ended when the last Doshin died childless. But she _was_ of Faran blood, of _pure_ Faran blood, and it was unacceptable of her to behave like a lowly Ferengi female.

Fortunately, regardless what her previous owners might have told her, she wasn’t stupid. And she was willing to learn. They had made considerable progress already. She was now willing to wear clothes and jewellery. She seemed to particularly enjoy the latter, showing an infallible instinct to tell genuine gemstones and precious metals from fake ones.

She was also surprisingly good at organizing things. Mostly household events so far, but Zaeb hoped that – based on that ability – she’d be able to lend him a hand in many other things, too.

Which was why he’d brought her with him to this trip; well, aside from the urge to keep a close eye on this most valuable of his possessions. He wanted to show her Izul, the once proud legacy of their people, to make her understand her true status – which was far, far above the inferior little gremlins that had forced their people into exile two hundred years ago.

It showed her natural intelligence how quickly she’d learned to value her new status; and how properly grateful she was. Like at this very moment.

“Are you busy,” she asked, coming closer to his chair, her multiple bracelets making a most pleasant, clinking noise. “Or do you have time for a little _oo-mox_?”

He laughed. The Faran weren’t as much the slaves of their base instincts as the Ferengi, but they found the stimulation of their lobes every bit as pleasurable. Especially considering the fact that Faran ears had thrice as many nerve endings as the misshapen ones of the Ferengi.

“ _Beware of the man who doesn’t make time for oo-mox_ ,” he cited the 223rd Rule and leaned back in his chair to give himself into her highly skilled hands.

But barely had she begun massaging his enormous lobes when the intercom system beeped. It was his second officer; a distant cousin whom he’d taken into his service to keep the family interests firmly in his own hand.

“DaiMon Zaeb, the _hew-mans_ are calling us,” Quinto said.

Zaeb suppressed an annoyed sigh. What did the Starfleet commander want from him? He’d made his position crystal clear – did Riker hope to fool him again? Or was he willing to give in, after all.

“Hold the call,” he ordered. “I’m on my way to the bridge.”

He rose and patted his bride on the delicately curved head. “I’m sorry, my dear. Duty calls. I’ll make up to you later.”


	8. Divided Loyalties

**CHAPTER 08 – DIVIDED LOYALTIES, Part 1**

At the same moment when Troi entered the bridge, Riker emerged from the captain’s ready room, looking remarkably well-rested and full of nervous energy.

“Call the Ferengi vessel,” he ordered.

Worf acknowledged the order, and a short time later the oversized head of DaiMon Zaeb filled the main screen. The Ferengi looked mildly annoyed.

“What do you want, _hew-man_?” he asked in a bored tone. “I won’t negotiate with you. I’ve spoken to my people on the planet, and we know that you’ve lied to us. Repeatedly. I won’t answer your any calls from your vessel, unless it’s Captain Picard calling.”

“That’s fine with me,” Riker answered with a predatory grin. “I am not in the mood to talk with you, either. I just wanted to warn you: get your people off the planet surface immediately, because I’ll be demonstrating the _Enterprise_ ’s power in ten standard minutes.”

“By what?” the Ferengi sneered.

“By destroying the underground city,” Riker replied.

“Pah!” the Ferengi made a derisive snort. “You should take Rule Number 60 to heart, _hew-man_ , and _keep your lies consistent_ – but not beyond credibility. You’ve already tried that particular bluff, and it didn’t work. We _know_ there’s no thermonuclear device in the city. My people used the internal scanners on the first level to check it. Or did you believe we wouldn’t be able to operate the technology of our ancestors?”

“I’m not speaking of a thermonuclear device,” Riker looked at the Klingon. “Mr Worf, aim photon torpedoes at the heart of Izul.”

“Photon torpedoes locked on to target and ready,” the Klingon replied almost immediately. “Awaiting the order to fire, sir.”

“Hold your fire – for now,” Riker ordered; then, turning back to the main screen, he added. “You have ten minutes. _Enterprise_ out.”

He signalled Worf to end the connection and then marched back to the ready room. The officers on the bridge exchanged worried looks.

“Are we authorized to destroy something of this magnitude outside Federation territory?” Chief Pendleton from communications asked.

As Starfleet ships no longer had an independent communications section, he and his two colleagues responsible for the maintenance of the comm system nominally belonged to Engineering. But he was a passable linguist himself and often worked with Troi or with the A&A officers; therefore he knew better than most others how unusual – not to mention questionable – Riker’s orders were.

“This is a planet of great importance for the history of this galactic quadrant,” he continued. “Besides, it doesn’t represent any danger for us.”

“Yeah, but what if the Ferengi lay hand on it?” LaForge reminded him.

Pendleton shrugged. “What if they do? Dr Boudreau’s team worked there for years, and they didn’t find any doomsday weapon; or any piece of technology that couldn’t be fond anywhere else in the known galaxy. The planet’s importance is mostly historic.”

“I dunno,” LaForge said. “Those elevators, based on cold fluidic metal technology, seemed pretty advanced to me.”

“The Antosians have similar technology,” Pendleton pointed out. “So do the Deltans, and probably half a dozen other races in the Alpha Quadrant alone. There is no real reason to destroy the place. There’s nothing down there that would provide the Ferengi with any dangerous advantage.”

“Save for the fact that they’d all become obscenely rich after they’ve sold the city to the highest bidder, piece by piece,” Ensign Kelly Lynn, who was filling in for Data at ops, added, and everyone laughed.

Everyone but Worf, that is. The Klingon glared at his fellow officers with an angry scowl.

“It’s not our job to question Commander Riker’s orders,” he growled. “Don’t forget: he is our captain now.”

“Because the Ferengi killed Captain Picard,” LaForge added, sobering rapidly. “And Data. We shouldn’t forget that, Chief.”

“I’m not forgetting anything,” Pendleton, who could easily have been his father and was accordingly experienced, returned. “I’m just saying that destroying the city is unnecessary and completely useless.”

“How so?” LaForge challenged.

“It will give us no advantage; nor would it harm the Ferengi in any way, save for the loss of potential profit,” Pendleton shrugged again. “Are we children in a sandbox, destroying each other’s sand castles out of sheer spite, or are we Starfleet officers, representing the peaceful coexistence of advanced civilizations? Because if we are the latter, we should behave accordingly.”

“Small wonder that the Vulcans are always harping about how aggressive we humans are,” Ensign Tess Allenby, probably the least aggressive junior officer that ever graduated from Starfleet Academy, added.

All this useless chatter didn’t serve to ease Worf’s Klingon mind, genetically hard-wired to solve every problem by brute force. Even with the calming influence of a human foster family and after years of serving in Starfleet, he had a hard time to keep his warrior instincts under control. 

Right now, he was particularly annoyed. _Finally_ one of his commanding officers had shown a little initiative, and what were the other humans doing? Criticizing him and seeking excuse for the Ferengi vermin that had murdered their captain. Were all humans insane?

“Enough!” he roared, frightening everyone in shocked silence, at least for the moment. “We were given our orders and we’ll carry them out as soon as Commander Riker gives the sign. Discussion finished.”

“Not if I can talk him out of it,” Troi said calmly.

Worf opened his mouth to answer but she silenced him with a raised hand.

“Try to control yourself, Lieutenant,” she said, the natural authority of her birth as progeny of one of the once ruling Houses of Betazed coming to the surface. “You may be chief of security on this ship, but don’t forget that Dr Crusher, Commander LaForge and I outrank you. If you continue displaying such irrational behaviour, I’ll have you removed from the bridge and put under medical observation. I won’t let you endanger us all only because both you and Will are high on testosterone.”

“Klingons don’t produce testosterone,” Worf told her darkly. “Our body chemistry is completely different.”

“You could have fooled me,” she replied tartly; then she looked at LaForge. “Geordi, you are the ranking officer here. Don’t allow him to do anything stupid until I’ve spoken with Will!”

“If you think so, Counselor,” LaForge agreed unhappily. As a full commander, Troi outranked him, too, even though she rarely pulled rank – or wore a uniform.

“Thank you,” she gave him one of her radiant smiles. “I hope I won’t be long.”

With that, she crossed the bridge and entered the captain’s ready room, without asking first.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To Picard’s great relief, Dr Boudreau regained consciousness as soon as he and Data had managed to clear away enough rubbish with the help of some laser shovels found in one of the toolkits left behind by the expedition to fit through and get out into the tunnel where there was enough air to breathe. 

They’d damaged the sensitive archaeological tools – originally meant to free fragile objects from hardened sand – beyond repair in the process, but that couldn’t be helped. They needed to get out and – hopefully back to the _Enterprise_ before Riker would manage to start a war between the Federation and the Ferengi Alliance over the skull.

Fortunately, the maintenance room in which they had been trapped wasn’t far from _Solna Centre_ , and Picard decided to return there. It was a risky move, seeing as all tunnels on that particular level led to the _Centre_ , and it also served as a crossing point for several transport and escalator routes – at least those that were still working – but it was a risk they had to take. They needed supplies, and they needed a way to contact the ship, and there was their best chance for that.

 _Solna Centre_ had a communications station, access to the city-wide internal scanner network – and medical and food supplies, stored there by the expedition that used it as their starting point to the excavations on the lower levels. Now it would serve as their starting point to escape from the planet. Hopefully.

Picard ordered Data to scan for the whereabouts of the Ferengi landing party while he raided the medical cupboard to find something that would help bringing Dr Boudreau back to her feet. Fortunately, he found an old-fashioned medical tricorder that told him that her artificial heart was working just fine; the diagnostic program also suggested 20ccs of Tri-Ox.

A rather large dosis for somebody of her age.

“That’s all right, Jean-Luc,” she said, seeing his hesitation. “I was given Tri-Ox before. My system can take it; I need to be fit enough to get to the surface on my own. Neither of you can afford to carry me, with those Ferengi still at large.”

“Speaking of which,” Picard turned to the android, after having given her the hypospray,” have you found them, Commander?”

Data nodded in that peculiar, jerky manner of his.

“Yes, Captain. They are currently two levels above us, heading slowly but steadily downwards; probably seeking for the source of the explosion. In my estimate they would reach our current position in approximately ten minutes and twenty-three seconds,” he hesitated for a moment, then added. “That is only a rough estimate, of course.”

“Of course,” Picard suppressed a smile; had it been up to him, Data would have given an estimate down to nanoseconds, but he’d learned by now that humans weren’t interested in the same level of accuracy as he was. “Well, we’ll try to be gone by that time, then. I’d like to contact _somebody_ aboard the _Enterprise_ first, though. We need to know what’s going on; and whether it’s safe for us to return to the surface. Can we hail the ship through the archaeological team’s comm system?”

Data gave the communications console a cursory glance.

“Theoretically, it is possible, sir, as this console is connected to the mobile comm station of the team in _T-centralen_. The problem is, however, that any call sent from here would inevitably go through the communications station of the _Enterprise_ ; the one on the main bridge. It would be impossible to contact anyone there without Commander Riker’s knowledge.”

“It might not be necessary to contact the _Enterprise_ ,” Dr Boudreau said; the Tri-Ox seemed to have worked, because she looked a lot better now. “Somebody appears to be trying to contact _us_ ,” she gestured towards the blinking light on one of the control panels.

“How do we answer the call?” Picard asked.

“Oh, just touch the blinking surface,” she replied.

Data did so, and in the next moment they could hear the whispered voice of… Wesley Crusher, of all people!

“ _Enterprise_ to Captain Picard. Captain, can you hear me? Data, are you there? Are you all right?”

Picard hurried over to the console, giddy with relief. “We’re all here, Mr Crusher, safe and sound, but where are you? Why is it you who contacts us?”

“Captain, thank God you’re alive!” Wesley’s voice rose half an octave in excitement before he would realize he was being too loud and hurriedly lower his voice again. “I’m in one of the Jeffries tubes, sir, halfway between the bridge and Engineering,” he then continued. “I’ve bypassed the main communication controls to try contacting you without Commander Riker’s knowledge. He told us you were killed by the Ferengi; but Mom and Counselor Troi had their doubts and asked me to try finding you; in case you were still alive, that is.”

“Good work, Mr Crusher,” Picard said. “Can you describe me the situation aboard my ship?”

“It’s bad, sir,” Wesley replied. “Commander Riker put the ship on red alert and gave the Ferengi an ultimatum: get their landing party off the planet within ten minutes, or he’d destroy the city. He had Worf aim the photon torpedoes at Izul and seems determined to make good of his threat.”

“ _What_?” Picard couldn’t believe his ears. “Is he insane?”

“Well, he doesn’t seem to be himself, for sure,” Wesley admitted, clearly uncomfortable with having to say such negative things about his role model. “Counselor Troi is trying to win some time, but it would be good if you could get back to the ship as soon as possible, Captain.”

“I intend to do so, Mr Crusher,” Picard said dryly. “We’re about to get to the surface, where the transporter can locate us without our comm badges. Do you think you can beam us aboard unnoticed?”

“I’ll try, sir,” Wesley thought about the possibilities for a moment. “I could use Transporter Room Four; it’s usually unmanned during Beta Shift,” he paused, clearly checking something, and when he spoke again, his voice was nervous and urgent. “Captain, I must leave here, now. An alert has just gone up to the bridge.”

“Get out of there!” Picard ordered. “We’re leaving this level, too, heading to the surface. See you aboard, Mr Crusher.”

The connection broke and Picard turned to Dr Boudreau. “Annette, how are you doing? Can you manage to the surface?”

She nodded. “I’m much better, Jean-Luc. And it’s only four levels to _T-centralen_ , from where we can use the Faran site-to-site transporter to get directly to the surface.”

“What’s the fastest way there?”

“The main escalators. If we move _now_ , we can avoid running into the Ferengi on our way.”

Picard nodded. “All right. Mr Data, see if you can find something we could use as a weapon if necessary; even if it’s only a laser torch. And then let’s not waste any more time here.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Deanna Troi entered the captain’s ready room, she found Riker in a trance-like state, staring unblinkingly at something under the desk, something she couldn’t see from her current position. He was clearly unaware of his surroundings, his face frozen in an expression of pure ecstasy. It made her very uncomfortable; as if she’d intruded on an intimate moment.

She extended her sixth sense carefully, trying to check on his feelings – and found nothing. He read completely blank, emotionally; just like Data. It was eerie and unsettling; Will had always been a man of strong feelings. And yet she couldn’t sense anything from him. Not even the emotional shielding an empath could sense from a highly trained and disciplined Vulcan.

Something was very wrong here.

She was about to clear her throat to make him aware of her presence – she didn’t want to spy on him – when the intercom on the captain’s desk beeped.

“Worf to Riker,” the rough voice of the Klingon said. “Commander, the ten minutes are over. Awaiting your order to fire photon torpedoes on the underground city.”

Riker blinked, as if awakening from a long, intense dream, and stuffed something into the leather shoulder bag he’d been carrying on him all the times lately. Troi couldn’t see what it was, but – based on what she’d learned in the last couple of hours – she could make an educated guess.

It had to be the crystal skull. Nothing else would make any sense.

“Have the Ferengi left the planet?” Riker asked.

“No, sir,” the Klingon replied. “There wasn’t any transporter activity on the planet in the last ten minutes; in fact, there was no transporter activity at all since we returned to the _Enterprise_.”

“Very well, then,” Riker said, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “They’ve asked for it.”

“Will, wait!” Troi interrupted before he could have given the order. “Has it occurred to you that this course of action may not be the right one?”

Riker, only now registering her presence, frowned in obvious displeasure.

“What do you mean with that? We can’t allow them to get away with murdering the captain. And they can’t be allowed to lay hand on the city, either.”

“Perhaps not,” Troi allowed. “But you’re not entitled to make yourself jury, judge and executioner all in one person, either. If the Ferengi have indeed murdered Captain Picard and Dr Boudreau, it’s up to the Judge Advocate General of Starfleet to deal with them. And as for Izul, it’s the job of Federation diplomats to work out an agreement that would satisfy both parties. Like it or not, it’s _their_ legacy, not ours.”

Riker opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand to stop him. 

“Besides,” she added, “Bolaxnu 7 is in neutral territory. They have every right to be here; just like we have.”

Riker was about to protest again, when the intercom interrupted him.

“LaForge to Riker, Commander, there has been an unauthorized transmission from the ship to the planet’s surface.”

“Where did it come from?” Riker asked, his nostrils flaring in anger.

“Somewhere from the Jeffries tubes between here and Engineering,” LaForge answered. “We’re working on locating the exact place, but whoever it was, they’ve stopped transmitting thirty seconds ago and probably moved away already.”

“Is that even possible?” Troi asked. “Sending a transmission from a Jeffries tube, I mean? It sounds fairly unlikely.”

“No, not really,” LaForge said. “All one needs to do is to bypass the main communications controls. Theoretically, it could be done anywhere on the ship with the right access panels; and every Jeffries tube has one of those.”

“And who would be capable of doing so?” Riker demanded.

“Practically everyone from Engineering,” LaForge admitted glumly. “Plus anyone from the rest of the crew with advanced engineering training.”

“Which means how many people?” Riker asked.

“At least two hundred, _aside_ from the engineering crew,” LaForge replied. “Engineering courses are very popular at the Academy; most people would like to be able to help themselves where minor repairs are concerned. One can never know when such knowledge might be needed.”

“I see,” Riker rose and headed back to the bridge with grim determination. “Come with me, Deanna; we’ll see to the bottom of this.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He stormed onto the bridge in barely controlled fury.

“I’ve had enough!” he fumed, throwing himself into the command chair. ”I’ve had enough of spies running rampantly aboard the _Enterprise_! I want to find the person guilty of that unauthorized communication, do you hear me, Geordi?”

“Yes, Commander,” LaForge, wisely, chose not to point out how unlikely it was. Whoever had done it, they must have taken precautions.

“I want them to be brought to me immediately,” Riker continued. “Have your people search every single Jeffries tube with a DNA scanner if you have to, until you’ve found them, understood?”

“Understood, Commander,” LaForge replied, exchanging worried looks with his fellow engineers. As loyal as he was to the first officer, Riker’s increasingly irrational behaviour had begun to frighten him.

“And you,” Riker turned to Worf, “carry out your orders. I want that damned city destroyed, once and forever!”

“Delay that order, Lieutenant!” Troi said sharply, while other voices of weak protest rose all over the bridge. “We are not authorized to destroy this place.”

“It’s not your decision!” Riker snapped.

“Neither is it yours, Commander,” Troi returned. “I told you last time that I’ll have you removed from command and put under medical surveillance if you don’t get your act together; don’t force me to do so. Because I will, unless you back off and stop this sabre-rattling at once.”

Riker didn’t look as if he’d give in to her demands, and it seemed that the fight between the senior officers would deteriorate into something ugly, with the rest of the bridge crew watching helplessly, secretly sidling with her but not wanting to confront Riker – or Worf – openly, out of self-preservation.

Fortunately, Chief Pendleton’s console signalled an incoming call. He checked its origins – since Worf was currently at Tactical – and looked at Riker. “Commander, we’re being hailed by the Ferengi vessel.”

“Onscreen!” Riker ordered through gritted teeth.

“Commander,” DaiMon Zaeb’s voice was practically oozing with satisfaction, and the expression on his broad face was unbearably smug. “I knew you were bluffing… again. Now, let me give _you_ an ultimatum. My Kakiri Warriors have found your captain, that android officer of yours and the rouge Federation agent Boudreau. They are all safe and sound, even the old hag – for the moment. That can change abruptly, though – unless your ship departs this area of space immediately.”

“You don’t really think I’m going to buy your bluff,” Riker sneered.

“No, I didn’t think you would,” Zaeb replied languidly. “You _can_ try to make the first move against us, of course; but perhaps first you’d like to see my proof,” he turned his head to the side to speak to somebody they couldn’t see. “Quinto, show us the live feed from the planet’s surface.”

In the next moment his image was replaced by that of the desert planet, with the monoliths in the foreground and the huge gas giant in the background, dominating the night sky with its eye-wateringly bright multi-coloured glow. 

A group of black-clad Ferengi, wearing neural whips, stood between the monoliths, surrounding three people in Starfleet uniforms and aiming heavy disruptors at them. The figures were small, but there was no mistaking of Picard’s bald head, Data’s yellow-hued skin – or the outdated uniform of Dr Boudreau.

“I hope you trust your own eyes, _hew-man_ ,” Zaeb continued. “Now, if you want them back in one piece, meet us on the outer rim of the Bolaxnu system, where we’ll beam them over to you. Any attempt to take them by force will lead to their immediate execution. See you in two of your standard hours, at these coordinates.”

A series of coordinates were displayed on the main screen briefly, and then the connection was broken.

Riker gave Troi a baleful look. “Now who’s rattling with their sabre?”

“Both of you,” Troi replied coldly. “Unfortunately, DaiMon Zaeb has the better position.”

“What are we going to do now, sir?” LaForge asked. “Should I set a course to those coordinates?”

“Oh, no!” Riker said darkly. “We’re not backing off; no way. They want a challenge? I’ll give them a challenge they won’t forget.”

“But what if they kill the captain and the others?” Chief Gillespie asked in concern.

Riker pulled a face. ”You don’t really believe _that_ was the captain, do you?”

“Who was it then?” Gillespie, who had indeed believed exactly that – together with everyone else, except perhaps Worf – asked in confusion.

“Clones,” Riker answered promptly. “The Ferengi had cloned the captain and the others before they killed them.”

The others gave him sceptical looks. One didn’t need a medical degree to know that a clone couldn’t fully develop within a few hours. And even if the Ferengi had somehow managed to clone Picard and Dr Boudreau in record time, they couldn’t have done the same with Data.

Only organic beings could be cloned. Data was a machine, with no existing manual how to create a duplicate.

Before anyone could have voiced their doubts, however, an alarm signal started blinking on Chief Gillespie’s console – the one that was constantly monitoring ship’s status.

“Commander,” he said in surprise. “Apparently, the shields have been dropped for 12.3 seconds. In that time, an unauthorized transport took place, initiated from Transporter Room Four.”

“Who left the ship?” Riker demanded.

Gillespie shook his head. “Nobody, sir. But three persons have been beamed up from the planet’s surface. Their patterns are identical with those of the captain, Commander Data and Dr Boudreau.”

“Of course they are,” Riker scowled. “They’re clones, after all. Somehow the Ferengi devised a way to get them on the Enterprise. They must have had an accomplice aboard. Who’s on duty in Transporter Room Four?”

“Nobody, sir,” Gillespie replied. “It isn’t used during Beta Shift at all.”

“Well, we’ll deal with the traitor later,” Riker said. “Right now, we must deal with the clones.”

“And _how_ do you intend to deal with them?” Troi asked, justifiably concerned; she was the only one to know for certain that those _weren’t_ clones.

“There’s no choice; they must be destroyed,” Riker announced. “Geordi, keep the ship in stationary orbit. Mr Worf, you with me!”

And, shouldering his leather bag, he marched directly to the turbolift behind the command chair, the one leading to the battle bridge.


	9. Divided Loyalties, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the battle bridge are taken from “The Next Generation Technical Manual”.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – DIVIDED LOYALTIES, Part 2**

Picard, Data and Dr Boudreau rode the main escalators from _Solna Centre_ to _T-centralen_ , relying on her superior knowledge of the city’s layout and possible shortcuts. To their great relief, they found the upper dispatch centre empty.

“One more transfer,” Dr Boudreau said, “And the _Enterprise_ can beam us up – assuming your Mr Crusher manages to outsmart Commander Riker. He sounded awfully young.”

“He is; but he’s also very resourceful,” Picard replied. “And he has help.”

“Can you set the Faran transporter to delayed activation, Doctor?” Data asked. “Perhaps it would be the best if I operated it. I can join you on the platform within 2.6 seconds.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied. “The system works automatically in both directions. We’ll stand together on that slab of metal there, and moments later we’ll be on the surface. Come!”

They joined her on the wide metal slab… platform… whatever and waited. For a moment nothing happened. Then, without warning, Picard felt slight disorientation, and in the next moment he found himself on the planet surface, standing between the two enormous monoliths, vaguely nauseous from the unused method of transportation and from the heat of the Bolaxnu sun that made the dry air sizzle around them.

Unfortunately, they weren’t alone. A group of Ferengi, wearing black leather with a white trim and with the infamous neural whips hanging from their belts were surrounding them, aiming oversized disruptor pistols right at their heads.

They were larger and almost twice as board as any Ferengi Picard had seen previously, with only one big forehead bulb instead of two, bat-like ears and sharp canines large enough that the points protruded even with their mouths closed. A bit further away stood the one that had to be their leader, based on his similarly designed but much richer outfit.

He looked a lot like DaiMon Zaeb, actually, save for his different colouring, so Picard assumed that he, too, had to be a late progeny of the Faran people. Whether that was good for them or not remained to be seen.

“Captain Picard, I presume,” he said in a deep, mellow voice. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain. I am Luug, executive officer of the _Izuru_ and a distant cousin of DaiMon Zaeb, who is eager to meet you at last. Your Commander Riker has been most unreasonable; we hope that your presence on the _Izuru_ will make him reconsider his position.”

“I doubt it,” Picard replied dryly. “But if you let me speak to him I’ll try to calm him down.”

Luug tilted his large head to the side in mocking pretense of thinking about the human’s suggestion.

“No, I don’t believe I will. There’s a better method to persuade people; I think you _hew-mans_ call it ‘show, not tell’. A remarkable concept,” he touched a tiny metallic sphere embedded in his earlobe – it looked like an ornament but was most likely some kind of communications device. “Live feed established, DaiMon,” he said. “Ready to connect to the Federation vessel.”

He waited for a moment, clearly listening to a message from the _Izuru_ , and then turned back to Picard with a predatory grin.

“Your people can see you, Captain. They know that you’ll be taken to the _Izuru_ and transported to the rim of the Bolaxnu system, where they can have you back – assuming they leave this area of space without delay and don’t come back.”

“Commander Riker won’t give in to your ridiculous demands,” Picard said.

Luug raised a bushy eyebrow. “You should pray to your gods that he would, _hew-man_. The alternative wouldn’t be pleasant for you… for either of you,” he touched the device in his ear again. “Luug to _Izuru_. You can beam up the _hew-man_ and the android now.”

He was still speaking when Picard felt the gentle buzz of a transporter beam catching him. In the next moment he rematerialized – but not on the Ferengi ship. He was standing in a Starfleet-issue transporter room, and behind the operator’s console Beverly and Wesley were staring at him anxiously.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“We did it, Mom!” the young man crowed triumphantly and pumped his fist in the air. “We actually did it!”

“Yes, but we don’t have time to waste,” his mother answered. Then she turned to Picard. “Jean-Luc, you must go to the bridge right away. Deanna is trying to keep Will under control, but I don’t know how long she can keep doing so.”

Picard nodded. “I see. Mr Crusher, can you transport me and Commander Data directly to the bridge from here?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Make it so, then. Beverly, take Dr Boudreau to sickbay and check her heart. She was hit by a phaser set to heavy stun. I gave her a heavy dosis of Tri-Ox to get her out of there in the first place, but I don’t know what it did to her system.”

“Of course, Jean-Luc,” Beverly smiled at the older woman. “Come with me, please.”

The two of them headed towards the turbolift. Picard could hear Beverly contact sickbay on her way out, asking Nurse Ogawa to wait for them in the examination room.

He and Data returned to the transporter platforms. Wesley needed a moment to adjust the settings – site-to-site transport within a starship still wasn’t entirely without risk – and then looked at them expectantly.

“Ready when you are, Captain.”

“Energizing,” Picard ordered, and seconds later the transporter beam engulfed him and Data and carried them off of Transporter Room Four.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Rematerializing in the centre of the main bridge, they were greeted by a clearly relieved Deanna Troi.

“It’s good to have you back, Captain,” she said. "I was getting desperate here on my own. I’m not an officer with command training, and neither is Geordi.”

“It’s good to be back,” Picard sat down in the command chair. “Report,” he then ordered in the clipped tone he always used in the middle of a crisis.

That in itself told the bridge crew how serious the situation was; not that they wouldn’t have a clue already.

“Commander Riker seems to be under the influence of an alien artefact, possibly originating from Bolaxnu 7,” Troi told him, carefully avoiding to name the artefact for what it was. “He appears to be determined to destroy the underground city, just to prevent it from falling into Ferengi hands. He also voiced the opinion that you, Dr Boudreau and Data have been cloned by the Ferengi before they killed you, and smuggled on board to take over the _Enterprise_ for them.”

“Curious,” Data commented. “The commander knows that I have not enough organic components to be cloned.”

“Well, yes, he isn’t exactly at his best right now,” Troi confessed.

“Where is he now?” Picard asked.

“Gone to the battle bridge,” LaForge replied. “With Worf.”

“Which is not good,” Troi supplied. “The situation between the _Enterprise_ and the Ferengi vessel has been heating up ever since the three of you went down to the planet; the commander had several… arguments with DaiMon Zaeb, giving each other mutual ultimatums; the talks didn’t lead anywhere.”

“And Lieutenant Worf is still supporting him?” Picard frowned.

“He’s a Klingon, sir,” Troi reminded him with a shrug. “They _live_ for battle. I haven’t felt such excitement from Worf since the Klingon civil war. Haven’t felt him to be so… so _alive_.”

“While that’s certainly nice for Mr Worf, I’m afraid we still can’t allow Commander Riker to start a war with the Ferengi,” Picard said dryly and looked at the tactical officer on duty. “Ensign Baila, put together a security detail. Choose people who are experienced in hand-to-hand combat and strong enough to face a Klingon if they have to. We must prevent Commander Riker to take over the ship from the battle bridge – by any means necessary.”

“That might not be as easy as you think, sir,” Chief Gillespie said unhappily, consulting his readouts. “It seems that the commander and Worf have cut off all power to the turbolift.”

“Why would they do that?” Ensign Tess Allenby asked in confusion. “That way they’d be essentially stranding themselves on the battle bridge.”

“Yeah; and keeping everyone else out,” LaForge said grimly.

Picard nodded. “My instinct tells me that Commander Riker is going to separate the saucer section from the rest of the ship before setting off on his chose path of battle and destruction. Mr Data, can we cut him off the main computer, so that they won’t be able to perform a saucer separation?”

“Negative, sir,” the android leaned over Ensign Kenny Lin’s shoulder to check the readouts of the operations station. “In fact, Commander Riker has already rerouted the command functions to the battle bridge. Or rather Worf, I believe; he has more experience with emergency overrides.”

“That’s bad,” Picard murmured. “We must get to them before they’d initiate saucer separation,” he stepped up to the communications station. “Picard to Transporter Room Three.”

“O’Brien here, Captain,” the cheerful voice of the Irishman replied immediately.

“Mr O’Brien, can you beam me onto the battle bridge?” Picard asked.

“I’m afraid I cannot, sir,” O’Brien said apologetically. “It seems somebody has erected a force field around the battle bridge. One that would repel all attempts to beam in.”

“I see. Thank you, Mr O’Brien. Remain on standby, in case we can find a breach in that force field. We might need your skills yet.”

“Aye, sir. O’Brien out.”

“What now?” Troi asked in concern.

Picard shrugged. “I’ll try to reason with Will.”

“He won’t listen to you,” Troi warned him.

Picard nodded. “I know. But _Worf_ might. And we’ll win some time.”

“Afraid not,” sir,” Chief Gillespie said. “They’ve already initiated the saucer separation protocols.”

“ _Merde_!” Picard muttered angrily. “Open a channel anyway, Chief Pendleton; perhaps it’s not too late to stop them yet.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The battle bridge of the _Enterprise_ was the separate command and control centre of the stardrive section, from which operations could be conducted when in separated flight mode. In other words, one could fly the ship from here when the saucer section had been removed for the safety of the crew.

While duplicating most of the functions op the main bridge, it concentrated on dedicated piloting, support and defensive stations. It also maintained an aft equipment bay housing computer optical subprocessors as well as power, environmental and optical data network trunk connects. Additional computer subprocessors were located in smaller port and starboard equipment bays as well as in the armoured forward bay enclosing the main viewer.

In emergency situations only the station for the ship’s captain, the flight controller, the operations manager and the tactical officer had to be manned. Other dedicated battle bridge stations – like defence communications, technology assessment, defence systems engineering or engagement damage intelligence – were configured and occupied according to scenario requirement.

In any case, a minimum of four highly trained people was required to operate the battle bridge safely, and Worf was understandably worried that there were just the two of them.

“Commander, if you want me at the flight controls, we’ll need another tactical officer in here,” he emphasized. “And an operations manager. And at least one engineer, just in case any technical problem should emerge.”

The thought of Riker flying the stardrive section didn’t even occur. The commander managed to fly a shuttle on his own just fine. He knew – in theory – how the flight controls of a _Galaxy_ -class starship worked, and he could orchestrate a saucer separation manoeuvre by giving the right orders at the right time. But allowing him to try his hands on said controls in an emergency situation would have been suicidal.

Flying a starship of this magnitude required more than just theoretical knowledge, and Worf was the one who had spent hours upon hours in the flight simulator with LaForge and Wesley Crusher to learn how to do it safely, not Riker. And even he couldn’t come close to LaForge’s skills. Or Wesley’s for that matter. Some people were just gifted in that area.

“No,” Riker said brusquely. “We’ll have to make do between the two of us. The crew can’t be trusted; you’ve seen on the bridge how they reacted. You’re the only one of whom I know for certain that isn’t a traitor. I need you, Lieutenant. Can I count on you?”

“Of course, sir,” Worf’s broad chest was swelling with pride. “What are your orders?”

“I want you to separate from the saucer section, open fire on the city and prepare to engage the Ferengi vessel,” Riker summarized bluntly.

The Klingon looked at him a little doubtfully. “Are you sure that we have to risk the saucer separation, Commander? It would be a risky manoeuvre to try with just the two of us.”

Riker gave him a disapproving look. “You’d rather put the saucer section at risk, with all the civilians and the families on board, when we engage the Ferengi?”

“Of course not, sir,” the Klingon replied indignantly. “But do you really want to go to battle with them without the knowledge and the support of Starfleet Command? I agree with you that they’re vermin and deserve what they get; but is it necessary to endanger your own career over this… _disagreement_ with them?”

Riker merely smiled at that, caressing his leather bag for a moment. “Don’t worry, Mr Worf. I’ve got my contacts among the brass. This is a day that will seal our destinies and will, no doubt, result in both of us receiving our own command.”

“If you think so, sir,” the Klingon muttered, still not entirely convinced.

“I _know_ so,” Riker tapped a control on the right hand panel of the command chair and spoke with a slightly raised voice as he made the official log entry.

**_Acting Captain William T. Riker’s log  
Stardate: 45057.3  
At this moment, I am transferring command to the battle bridge. Authorization: Riker Omega Three._ **

After rattling down his authorization code, he gestured to Worf. “Make the signal, Lieutenant”

Worf touched a control lightly, and the traditional budge call “Beat to Quarters” rang all over the ship, repeating over and over as the Klingon moved over to the flight control station.

“Preparing for battle configurations,” he said crisply. “On your command, sir.”

He made a mental note of the moves he would need to make in quick progression as soon as the separation sequence was initiated. The disengagement of the discus section, even if the ship was moving with the help of the manoeuvring thrusters only and the battle bridge was fully manned, could prove a risky manoeuvre; with only the two of them, it became a true challenge.

Fortunately, they had enough distance from the Ferengi ship so they could turn and face it while the saucer made away with the rest of the crew and the civilians they had evacuated from Bolaxnu 7. It was also fortunate that Worf was good at multitasking. He knew he would sorely need it in the next few minutes.

He activated the conn and scanned the panel. “Ferengi vessel is still keeping its distance, sir,” he reported.

“Good,” Riker said grimly. “You were already on board when the _Enterprise_ encountered Q for the first time, weren’t you, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you know what we’re going to do now. I want a full spread of photon torpedoes aimed to detonate close enough to the Ferengi to blind their sensors at the moment we separate. Stand by to fire on my mark.”

The Klingon nodded. “Understood, sir. It was a useful tactic then; it might work again.”

“Let’s hope so,” Riker tapped his comm badge. “Commander LaForge, this is the acting captain. I assume you’re in command of the main bridge at the moment, so listen to me carefully. We’ll begin the countdown to separation _now_. At the same time we’ll reduce power just enough to get the saucer section out ahead and clear of us. I suggest you go to full impulse and seek cover behind the planet while we engage the Ferengi.”

He waited for a moment for LaForge to acknowledge his orders. Instead, the image of the Ferengi ship vanished from the main viewer and was replaced with that of Picard, who looked like somebody who’d had to dig himself out of a collapsed tunnel – which was what had actually happened.

“Commander… Will,” he said, with just a hint of despair in his voice. “You don’t have to endanger the crew with such a reckless action.”

“Oh yes, I have,” Riker answered grimly. “Especially if the Ferengi have already managed to get all you impostors aboard the _Enterprise_. I’ll deal with them; then I’ll turn back and deal with _you_. But I’m not risking the entire crew in battle. Mr Worf, cut off communications. We don’t have time for this nonsense. Show me the enemy vessel.”

The Klingon did as he was ordered, and the Ferengi ship reappeared on the main screen. Riker paused, watching it for a moment.

“Begin countdown,” he then said, “and fire torpedoes. Mark.”

Worf turned around his chair to Tactical to reach the weapons controls; his fingers flew over them.

“Photon torpedoes away,” he reported, watching the readouts with narrowing eyes.

He was a highly skilled and experienced weapons officer, but the timing Riker required depended largely on the assumption that the Ferengi ship would continue orbiting the planet at the same speed as they were. If it was not – if it would suddenly increase its velocity to intercept them – then the torpedoes would very likely detonate behind it, losing the advantage the saucer section needed to get away.

Riker was still confident that it would work; just as it had worked at that first encounter with Q, during the _Enterprise_ ’s maiden voyage to Farpoint Station. He was also counting on the greed of the Ferengi and their unwillingness to risk the skull.

“On the count,” Worf growled. “Six-five-four-three-two-one – _separation_.”

At the rear of the discus section, where it joined the swan neck of the secondary hull, a crack appeared. The massive retention assemblies unlocked and pulled back into their housings. Jets of vapour hissed into vacuum as connections were pulled free.

 ** _Acting captain’s log, supplemental. Moment of separation: Stardate 14057.3,_** Riker dictated into the communications panel, with one eye on the small security screen to watch the progress of the primary hull. **_We are now free to face the Ferengi threat._**

The great saucer angled up and away from the cobra-shaped stardrive section. As they couldn’t have done anything to override the separation sequence, the only possible action for the crew on the main bridge was to move away and out of harm’s way. As they cleared, the locking mechanisms completed their rotation and fully retreated into their housings with a _thump_ that was unheard in space, of course, but was – Riker knew it from first-hand experience – felt in the entire primary hull.

In the next moment the saucer went to full impulse power, aiming for the protection of the planet between them and the Ferengi, and sending out a distress signal for the nearest Starfleet ships – and yet not making a run for Federation space, which surprised Worf a little.

“Separation is successful, sir,” he repeated. “But the _Enterprise_ is not leaving the system.”

Riker waved impatiently. “Never mind. We’ll deal with them later. Where are the Ferengi?”

Worf tapped his controls, and the viewscreen showed the gleaming horseshoe shape of the _Izuru_ in its centre again. The multiple flashes of photon torpedo explosions were still glistening around it, reflected by the shields. Riker clenched his fist and hit his own knee in triumph, madness glittering in his eyes.

“Good timing, Mr Worf! All stop. Reverse course and take on stationary orbit above the underground city. Once in position, lock onto target and open fire.”

“Aye, sir,” the Klingon acknowledged.

The stardrive section of the _Enterprise_ swung around to return to its previous position above Izul, coming to face their adversaries head on in the process. On the huge forward viewer Riker could see that the photon torpedoes apparently had very little effect on the _Marauder_. Despite several near-direct hits, its shields held. Accelerating to impulse speed, it drove towards the _Enterprise_ , racing towards them on collision course.

Riker studied the viewscreen a moment longer, and then said, with a predatory grin. “Hold position. We’ll destroy the city first. Then we’ll deal with the Ferengi.”

Worf mirrored his grin with a full-toothed one of his own which, frankly, was a disturbing sight. “Aye, sir. Photon torpedoes locked on target and ready.”

But before Riker could have given the order to fire, suddenly the gleaming disk of the _Enterprise_ ’s saucer section emerged from behind the planet and established stationary orbit between them and Bolaxnu 7, extending her shields to maximum to protect the city.

In the next moment Picard’s voice came through the ship-to-ship communication channel. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that, Commander.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“That was unexpected,” DaiMon Zaeb commented in surprise.

He and his executive officer had been following the events on the viewscreen of the bridge of the _Izuru_. Luug nodded in agreement.

“To say the least. But why would the hew-man risk their own safety for the city? What is Izul for him?”

Zaeb shrugged. “It’s said that he’s an amateur archaeologist; you know how sentimental _hew-mans_ can get about old junk, regardless of its financial value… or the complete lack of it.”

“Not all of them,” Luug reminded him. “There was that female, what was her name again…”

“Vash,” Zaeb supplied. “Buts he was an exception. Besides, Picard commands Starfleet’s flagship; he must, at least, pretend to follow proper protocol. Especially with the blue bug on board. Diplomacy, pah!”

“Andorians are almost as bad as Vulcans,” Luug agreed. “At least when the servitude to their government is concerned. Where is the profit in _that_?”

“Nowhere,” Zaeb said. “Which is why _we_ don’t work for the government. Not for the current one anyway. They are a bunch of petty thieves; no lobes at all. Small wonder, seeing who’s been in charge since our ancestors were driven out.”

“ _You could afford your own ship without your government – if it weren’t for your government_ ,” Luug quoted the 49th Rule, grinning.

Zaeb nodded. “Exactly. Fortunately for us, very few _hew-mans_ have ever embraced the true spirit of this Rule; or else the competition were much worse. They can be remarkably ruthless if they put their minds to it.”

“True,” Luug agreed. “Well, what are we doing now?”

“Nothing,” Zaeb replied with a shrug. We’ll open a bottle of _Eelwasser_ and let them fight out their differences. If Picard emerges victorious, which is statistically more likely, I’ll declare my willingness to sit down with him and negotiate shared research rights on Izul.”

“You would?” Luug asked in surprise.

“Of course,” Zaeb said. “You do remember what the 76th Rule says, don’t you?”

“ _Every once a while, declare peace. It confuses the hell out of your enemies_ ,” Luug prompted.

“Exactly,” Zaeb grinned. “Besides, it’s still better to come to an agreement with them than with that idiot government of the Alliance.”

“But will _he_ be willing to negotiate?” Luug voiced his doubts.

“Oh, he won’t _like_ it,” Zaeb allowed. But he is a reasonable man as _hew-mans_ go; and he has to play by the rules – the _Federation_ rules. Rules that are made for fools, based on lofty ideals and high morale… as _they_ understand it. _We_ , on the other hand, know that _morality is always defined by those in power_.”

“Rule Number 38,” Luug murmured. “But what if Riker wins their petty little power struggle?”

Zaeb shrugged indifferently. “There’ll still be time to destroy him… _and_ his ship.”

“You’ve called in reinforcements?” Luug asked in surprise.

“No,” Zaeb said. “ _They_ have, remember? And any Starfleet ship arriving hot-footed to the battle scene would come to the conclusion that _they_ were the aggressors, as soon as they’d checked the log entries. In either case, we win.”


	10. Divided Loyalties, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the battle bridge are taken from “The Next Generation Technical Manual”. The saucer separation manoeuvre is taken from the pilot episode “Encounter of Farpoint”, with the necessary alterations.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10 – DIVIDED LOYALTIES, Part 3**

Riker glared angrily at Picard’s image on the main viewer.

“What do you mean you can’t allow me to do?” he demanded.

“To destroy the city _or_ to start a war with the Ferengi,” Picard replied simply. “It is _wrong_ ; and were you not under the influence of the crystal skull you, too, would see the utter wrongness of it.”

Riker gave a mocking laugh. “This is ridiculous; especially coming from a clone who’s a Ferengi spy. Mr Worf, cut off the channel at once!"

But the Klingon didn’t move – for the first time since the whole confrontation had started.

“I think we should hear what he has to say first, sir,” he growled.

Riker shot him an annoyed look and hugged his leather bag protectively; but in the end he gave in – with spectacular reluctance.

“Very well, By all means, if you want to listen to a bunch of lies, let him say his part. It won’t change anything.”

“I hope it will, Number One,” Picard said. “I hope you will start thinking for yourself. I hope you will try to overcome the influence of the skull that is controlling you.”

“ _Nothing_ is controlling me!” Riker snarled, clutching the bag even either. “I’m doing what I have to do to prevent the city falling into Ferengi hands. It can’t be allowed; so move away and give free the firing line.”

“No, I won’t,” Picard replied calmly. “You’ll have to destroy the saucer section first.”

“That can be arranged,” Riker returned darkly.

“Can it?” Picard asked. “Are you really willing to destroy the ship, with over one thousand people aboard, half of them civilians; many of them children? Are you ready to murder them over a millennia-old ruin?”

“Their deaths will be _your_ fault if you don’t move out of my way _now_!” Riker screamed.

Picard didn’t even flinch. “You know that I can’t do that, Commander,” he said.

“Then we have nothing else to discuss,” Riker answered, his jaw set. “Mr Worf, open fire at the saucer!”

But the Klingon didn’t move. “What is in that bag, Commander?” he asked instead.

Riker gave him a furious glare. “It’s not your business. I gave you an order, Lieutenant; do I need to repeat myself?”

“You ordered me to fire on our own ship; on our own people,” the Klingon growled. “Even if Captain Picard _is_ a clone, which I’m beginning to doubt, the others are _not_. I won’t be the murderer of women and children; and I won’t become a traitor just because you say so. There is no honour in _that_.”

“Oh, don’t give me that Klingon nonsense!” Riker sneered. “If you’re too much of a coward to do what _has_ to be done, I can launch the photon torpedoes myself!”

He leapt to his feet and tried to get past Worf to do so, but Worf pulled him away from the weapons console. For a few moments they grappled for control, the Klingon clearly turning out victorious, which wasn’t really a surprise. But then the leather bag got torn open in the struggle, and the skull rolled onto the floor, its core gleaming eerily in the dimly lit battle bridge.

For a moment Worf froze in surprise; long enough for Riker to snatch up the skull. Its inner glow intensified, and his strength seemed to be instantly renewed from the contact. He moved towards the weapons console again, ready to fire on the saucer.

That finally woke Worf from his shock. He leapt at Riker, knocking the skull out of his hand; it landed at the Klingon’s feed with a _thud_. Riker, blind with fury, grabbed a phaser, pushed the settings up to ‘kill’ and fired at Worf.

Only his superior Klingon reflexes saved Worf’s life. He quickly moved to the side, and the high-energy phaser beam found its mark on the skull. As soon as that happened, Riker collapsed on the floor like a puppet with its strings broken – very much like Data after having his off-switch thrown, in fact.

Worf leaned down carefully to examine the skull. It was no longer glowing; had a blackened, burned-out core instead, with a cracked crystal coating. Even so, the Klingon knew better than to touch it. _That_ was better left to the experts.

He reopened the channel to the saucer section. “Worf to Captain Picard.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” Picard answered promptly.

“Sir, the skull has been hit by a phaser set to kill and seems to be… incapacitated,” Worf reported. “So does Commander Riker.”

“Is he injured?”

“No, sir; he simply collapsed when the skull was hit. Captain, I require a bridge crew over here. I cannot perform the docking manoeuvre on my own.”

“That would be too much to ask indeed,” Picard agreed. “Any personal preferences?”

“I could use Data’s help, sir,” Worf admitted. “I never conducted a manual docking before, and with the Ferengi breathing down our necks I wouldn’t risk to leave it to the automated systems.”

“Nonsense,” Picard said. “You are qualified; you’ll do just fine. Data, Mr LaForge and Ensign Reager are on their way to Transporter Room Three; so is Dr Selar to treat Commander Riker. Initiate reconnection manoeuvre as soon as they arrive.”

“Aye, Captain,” Worf replied in barely veiled relief.

Reconnection was a dangerous manoeuvre, unless the person in command had both a sharp eye and quick responses. Worf had both of these. He had done well in the Academy reconnect simulator, which was why he’d been allowed to participate in command training in the first place, but he’d never done it for real. Having such an experienced crew for his first attempt was a great help.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the end, it was a group of seven people that beamed over from the saucer section. Aside from Data, LaForge, Ensign Reager and Dr Selar also Ensign Peeples from Engineering, Ensign Daro from Security and Simon Tarses were sent; the latter to assist Dr Selar with the treatment of Riker.

Relived by their arrival, Worf settled himself at the flight controller’s console; he wasn’t such a gifted pilot as LaForge, but he was good enough, especially with Data beside him at the operations console… a place he had been filling since the maiden voyage of the _Enterprise_.

The Klingon greeted the android with a distracted nod, busily concentrating on the upcoming task. He was not one to doubt his own abilities, but he couldn’t deny a little performance anxiety.

“Forward sensors", he ordered softly, and Data switched them on after a brief acknowledgement.

The viewscreen now showed the rear end of the saucer section as it loomed above and ahead of the stardrive section. Worf could already see the docking link area. It looked smaller than he remembered from the simulator.

Disturbingly small, in fact.

“Ahead at docking speed,” he ordered, hands moving across the console with the practiced ease of muscle memory. He’d practiced this manoeuvre hundreds of times in the simulator, until he could make the initial adjustments without conscious thought. His rigid posture revealed his inner tension, but his voice remained firm and steady; he was concentrating on the speed and angle of the approach.

The swan-necked battle section slowly moved ahead, towards the huge disc of the primary hull.

“We are still a little low, Lieutenant,” Data warned.

Worf nodded his thanks. “Velocity to one half metre per second,” he ordered. “Two percent rise. Adjust pitch angle to negative three degrees.”

His hands moved over the panel, thick fingers tabbing in tiny adjustments with surprising delicacy. “All stations, prepare to reconnect.”

The two halves of the enormous starship were even now, quite close together. The battle section continued to ease forward. Worf followed the approach on the main screen, his eyes narrowed to slits under his bushy eyebrows.

“Level her out,” he growled. “Maintain docking speed. Docking crew, prepare for reconnection.”

The trailing edge of the saucer section filled the viewscreen, the docking link area dead ahead and growing closer. Worf’s hands slid speedily over the console

“Thrusters to station keeping, all velocities zero,” he intoned. “Her inertia should do the rest now.”

The two sections slid together smoothly. The great locking mechanisms began to rumble forward, out of their sockets. Worf hit two more tabs on the flight controller’s console.

“Locking up… _now_. Docking crew complete all reconnections,” he reopened the channel to the main bridge. “Docking board is green across, Captain.”

Gillespie’s voice floated from the ship’s intersystem communications. “Docking Chief to bridge. All reconnection systems are secure.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Picard answered. “Mr Worf, return command to the main bridge and join us. That was well done.”

“Aye, sir,” Worf said crisply, but his chest was swelling with pride again. “Thank you, sir.”

“Dr Selar, how is Commander Riker doing?” Picard inquired.

“The commander is correctly in a coma,” the Vulcan reported. “Brain activity is minimal but present.”

“Will he recover?”

“Insufficient data, Captain,” Selar said. “He needs to be taken to sickbay, where we will have to run an entire series of tests before we can make a reliable diagnosis.”

“I’m not interested in a detailed diagnosis,” Picard said. “Give me your expert estimate.”

“Based on the test results of Dr Roark, I would say that Commander Riker is in shock,” Selar was phrasing her opinion very carefully; this was unknown territory for them all. “Contact with the skull – even a brief one – seems to have caused a certain level of dependency, resulting in unusually high brain activity, even while Dr Roark was unconscious. In Commander Riker’s case it must have been worse, seeing that he was in almost unbroken contact with the artefact.”

“So the abrupt break of contact when the skull was hit caused the shock, which is why he’s in coma now?” Picard concluded.

“Exactly, Captain,” Selar replied. “It is my opinion that we will be able to bring him out of it with the help of a cortical simulator. But I would prefer to do so in Sickbay, where we can monitor his biological and neural functions constantly.”

“Have him beamed to sickbay,” Picard said. “And keep me informed about any changes in his condition,”

“Of course, Captain,” the Vulcan touched her comm badge, changing frequencies. “Doctor Selar to Transporter Room Three. Beam me, Ensign Tarses and Commander Riker directly into the Intensive Care Area.”

“Acknowledged,” O’Brien’s voice answered. “Energizing _now_.”

He was still speaking when the transporter beam carried away doctor, med tech and patient. The battle crew, too, was on their way to the turbolift connecting them with the main bridge. Only Worf stayed behind for a moment to dictate the last entry into the log.

**_Enterprise_ log, chief of security’s entry. Ship's modules rejoined at stardate 45057.31, with command now transferred back to the main bridge.**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It was half an hour later that Worf returned to the main bridge, bringing with him what was left of the crystal skull; which, frankly, wasn’t much. In its current state, the once ‘magical’ artefact had a surprising resemblance to a burned-out 20th century light bulb.

“It was a little more than just that,” Dr Boudreau, freshly released from sickbay and invited by Picard to join him on the bridge, commented when Chief Gillespie voiced that opinion. “Or would you say that your Mr Data is basically a toaster?”

“Of course not!” Gillespie returned indignantly. “He’s been acknowledged by Starfleet Command as an independent life form; a synthetic one, but still a life form.”

“And so was the skull,” Dr Boudreau said. “A crystalline life form, feeding on natural forms of energy, including geothermic energy and background radiation. Unlike Commander Data, however, it wasn’t an _intelligent life_ form. Not naturally, that is.”

“What do you mean not _naturally_?” LaForge asked.

“The skull was equipped with an artificial intelligence developed by the Faran,” Dr Boudreau explained. “As if we would plant a miniature computer inside, say, a tree. The Faran wanted a long-living, resilient life form to be host to their artificial intelligence; a life form that would replenish its own energy source by feeding, so that the information stored inside the artificial intelligence could be handed down to each new generation by a long line of emperors.”

“It was a bit more than just information, though,” Dr Crusher asked. “The memory engrams were transferred to each new user; basically copied into their brains. The more they used the skull, the more they got overwhelmed by the memories of the previous emperors, until their individual personalities were wiped out and they _became_ Doshin.”

Dr Boudreau nodded. “Exactly. In exchange, their own memories and experiences were absorbed by the skull and added to the knowledge that would be handed down to their successors. As close to immortality as one can get, really.”

“But why has Commander Riker gone crazy?” Wesley Crusher asked with youthful naiveté, oblivious of the glares the senior officers gave him - including his own mother.

“Unfortunately, the structure of the human brain isn’t made for this sort of transfer,” Dr Boudreau explained. “Even the Faran only used the skull in a special room, with safeties in place, or else the user would develop a strong addiction – complete with paranoia.”

“Is that what happened to Dr Roark?” Troi asked. “He accuses you to have pushed him into that pit, you know.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dr Boudreau sighed. “He was there when I found the skull, and we worked on it together for a while… until he began showing erratic behaviour.”

“Please elaborate,” Troi said.

“It started with him trying to court me,” Dr Boudreau replied. “Which is ridiculous, if you consider that I’m twice his age – or more. Then he became more and more jealous about the skull. He accused me of trying to keep it from him; to deny him knowledge that would be his by right.”

“It seems that – after millennia of inactivity – the artificial intelligence thought there was a new emperor and tried to turn him into Doshin,” Picard realized.

Dr Boudreau nodded. “That seems to be the most plausible theory, yes. Of course, now that it’s gone, we’ll never know the whole truth. Or is it still salvageable?”

She looked at Data questioningly, but the android shook his head.

“No, Doctor. My scanners indicate that there is no longer any power in it.”

“A pity,” Dr Boudreau said mournfully. “Many of Izul’s secrets are now lost for us, forever. But perhaps it’s for the best, after all; seeing what it could do to people.”

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Troi said. “Why was it more addictive for men than for women? And why did they react with starting to make advances to any woman in a position of authority first?”

“Faran emperors were exclusively male,” Dr Boudreau explained. “However, our research indicates that the females of the imperial family – called _matrons_ – were the true power behind the throne. It is only a theory, of course, but I think they were the ones who could provide or deny access to the skull. Faran society was pretty much a female-dominated one; among other reasons because females were few in numbers and therefore highly desired and respected.”

“Which, perhaps, explains the Ferengi attitude towards their own females,” Picard said dryly.

“Probably,” Dr Boudreau allowed. “We’d still need more research to tell for sure, though.”

“I’d like to know one more thing,” Troi said. “Dr Roark keeps stating that you’ve pushed him into the pit where he got so gravely injured. Is he telling the truth?”

“Yes,” Dr Boudreau replied simply. “He didn't tell you that he’d tried to beak my fingers to get the skull first, though, did he?”

Troi shook her head. ”No, he didn’t.”

“I didn’t think he would,” Dr Boudreau said thoughtfully. “Not that I’d blame him, mind you. He wasn’t in his right mind. Neither of us was, frankly. The skull might have had a lesser effect on me, being a woman – and an old one at that, very settled in my ways and thus not so easily influenced – but not even I had the four-lobed Faran brain, necessary to handle such a device properly.”

“You understand that there might be an investigation later,” Troi warned her.

“I know; I might have retired from active duty, but I used to be a Starfleet officer long enough to know how these things work,” she said. “I’m willing to make a full report and bear the consequences; but Dr Roark will have to do the same. One way or another, this means the end of the expedition,” she added with a sigh, “and the inglorious end of my life’s work, too.”

“Not necessarily,” Picard said. “Will’s example shows that neither you nor Dr Roark could be made responsible for what happened. And should there be any other artefacts that may pose a threat, it would be in the interest of the Federation _not_ to allow them to fall into Ferengi hands.”

“Starfleet Sciences would hardly let me continue my work after this failure,” she commented bitterly. “And without their support we can’t hope to continue our work. The planet is too far beyond official Federation borders to be safe.”

“Why wouldn’t they allow you to continue?” Picard asked. “You didn’t fail; you _have_ found Izul, haven’t you? And what the skull did to you – and to Dr Roark, _and_ to Commander Riker – _wasn’t_ your fault.”

“I doubt the brass would see it the same way,” she muttered.

Picard shrugged. “They’ll come around, I’m sure. Oh, there _will_ be a debriefing, no doubt about that; but my mission report will expressly suggest that you be allowed to continue your work; and I’m sure zh’Cheen will do the same.”

“Even if Starfleet allowed me to continue, the Ferengi would not,” Dr Boudreau reminded him. “DaiMon Zaeb was hell-bent to lay hands on the city himself.”

“And he still is, I’m sure about that,” Picard agreed. “But as you’ve told me yourself, he’s not a Ferengi; not really. He’s one of the last Faran – or what they’ve become during the recent millennia. I have the feeling that he wouldn’t want the Alliance to occupy the planet; that way he’d lose the legacy of his ancestors.”

“But he wouldn’t mind _us_ being there?” she asked doubtfully.

“That’s not very likely,” Worf commented. “They wouldn’t want _us_ to claim the legacy of the city, either.”

“Mr LaForge tells me the technology down there isn’t of any particular interest for the Federation,” Picard looked at his chief engineer for assurance, and LaForge nodded.

“That’s true, Captain. “We might not have the exact same things, but we have other stuff that’s every bit as good. We don’t _need_ the Faran technology – what’s still working of it.”

“The descendants of the Faran, however, have been living in exile for the last two hundred years,” Picard said. “They might want to move back in; or, in case the planet’s climate has become too hostile for them, they would want to use the knowledge stored in the databases; or any pieces of technology that can be removed.”

“Do you believe the Federation would be willing to let them have Izul?” Troi asked.

Picard shrugged again.

“The Federation can hardly deny that Izul is – and has always been – _their_ planet,” he pointed out. “Supporting their claim in exchange for the right to continue archaeological research would be an arrangement of mutual advantage.”

“ _If_ you can persuade both parties to make this agreement in the first place,” Troi said.

“I’ll present the idea to DaiMon Zaeb shortly,” Picard replied. “If he’s agreeable… well, I was thinking of asking for the help of Ambassador Troi to hammer out the agreement in further detail.”

“My _mother_?” Deanna seemed more than a little mortified by the idea.

Picard gave her a grim smile. “You cannot deny the fact, Counselor, that she’s a formidable personality; exactly the kind of imperious woman the Faran were apparently hard-wired to listen to. Plus, she can deal with regular Ferengi better than anyone else. She’ll lead them around in circles by their earlobes. Literally.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” Troi agreed ruefully. “For some reason the idea still frightens me, though. I’m not even sure why.”

“Because she’s your mother who’s been bossing you around all your life,” Picard said. “Giving her two opposing Ferengi factions to boss around would do everyone a lot of good. Ambassador Troi will literally blossom, finally having a truly important mission again. Both Faran and Ferengi will be intimidated into behaving themselves by the sheer force of her personality; and I think she and Annette will go on fabulously,” he added, with a smile in Dr Boudreau’s direction.

“No doubt,” Dr Boudreau agreed. “Between her and me and zh’Cheen we’d be able to deal with the Ferengi… _and_ the Faran. In theory, at least.”

“Then let’s see how can we work out the practical details,” Picard suggested. “I’ll send my report to Starfleet Command; talk to Admiral Savar who’s responsible for operations in this sector and suggest DaiMon Zaeb a personal meeting.”

“I would suggest the _Enterprise_ for that meeting,” Troi said. “If he agrees, that would show that he at least considers playing fairly… or whatever Ferengi see as fair.”

“Agreed,” Picard nodded; then he turned to Dr Boudreau. “Annette, you should speak to Starfleet Sciences and ask zh’Cheen to join us, should the meeting be agreed about. She’s a person of authority among her own people; besides, Andorians are not easily intimidated.”

“That leaves me to contact my mother, I assume,” Troi said unhappily.

“I would be grateful if you did, Counselor,” Picard replied. “You should also provide her with all the information she might need to assess the situation properly.”

Troi nodded, still looking more than a little doubtful; not the least because of her mother’s… _special interest_ in the captain.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Captain?”

“No; I’m sure I don’t _want_ to do this, Counselor,” Picard answered dryly. “However, I’m fairly sure that we _need_ to do this. Whatever else your mother may be, she’s a skilled diplomat, with a seat in the Federation Council – and with excellent connections. Connections that we’ll need to reach a peaceful end fort his conflict before in could escalate.”


	11. There Is No Substitute For Success

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter actually leads over to the events that build the base for the episode “Ensign Ro”, according to _The Star Trek Chronology_.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 11 – THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR SUCCESS**

Fitting Picard’s assumption, DaiMon Zaeb _was_ willing to sit down and negotiate with the _hew-mans_ , as he put it. Even if more than half of the people on the Federation side of the table weren’t humans at all.

Ambassador Lwaxana Troi – Daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed – dominated the room, as always, and she seemed to impress the Faran very much with her imperious manners… just as Picard had hoped for. Her fashion sense – tending to somewhat _gauche_ colours and lots of jewellery – matched the Faran/Ferengi standard, and she chose a wig of golden curls for the event, which also seemed to meet the other party’s agreement.

The Andorian zh’Cheen also joined the negotiations, as asked. Save for her and Dr Boudreau, an imposing Vulcan male by the name of Sorrel – the head of the Archaeology and Anthropology faculty on the Vulcan academy of sciences – was part of the Federation team. And Picard himself, of course, being the one who had made the meeting possible in the first place.

The Andorian Imperial Guard – a living anachronism in these days, like the Pope’s Swiss Guards on Earth, but still well-trained and very effective – sent a platoon of experienced warriors to protect the expedition in general and zh’Cheen in particular. In their old-fashioned body armour yet equipped with modern weapons of considerable firepower, they seemed more than a match for the Kakiri Warriors of the Faran party… and definitely more capable of independent thought.

DaiMon Zaeb surprised everyone by bringing his bride with him to the negotiation table. She appeared passive and timid, swathed in Tholian silk and laid out splendidly in jewellery of gold and multi-coloured gemstones, like a richly (too richly) decorated doll. But there was shrewd intelligence in those ice blue eyes of hers, and her attention was focused on Ambassador Troi from the moment they met. 

Clearly, the little Ferengi – or rather Faran – woman saw the Betazoid diplomat as a role model… which, from her point of view, probably made excellent sense. If she wanted to learn how to be a true _matron_ , Lwaxana Troi was the best person to learn from.

“This is my intended, Priell,” DaiMon Zaeb introduced her on the first day. “I’ve recently purchased her for the price of a small moon; she’s of great value for me. Unfortunately, she was raised in the traditional Ferengi way. I’m trying to redeem that by exposing her to more… wholesome influences. I hope you don’t mind her presence.”

“Of course not!” Ambassador Troi answered him. “It’s very enlightened of you, DaiMon Zaeb; surprisingly so, in fact. Don’t worry; I’ll take the little one under my wings.”

Picard suppressed a grin. The Ferengi – pardon, _Faran_ – wouldn’t know what hit him, once Ms Troi had taken his bride in her capable hands. Somehow he no longer doubted that the two parties would come to an understanding. 

Eventually. 

And zh’Cheen and the Vulcan would see to it that the negotiations remained within the expected boundaries. 

Hopefully.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with his best diplomatic smile. “Shall we begin?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The negotiations, firstly hosted by the _Enterprise_ , then relocated to Bolaxnu 7, to a fitting conference room already restored by the expedition in the first level of the lost city, went on for several weeks. DaiMon Zaeb turned out a tough and shrewd negotiation partner, especially when he was joined by his cousin Manion, generally known as ‘the pate of Starbase 80’. 

But Ambassador Troi was more than a match for the combined Faran ruthlessness, and the Andorian and the Vulcan provided her with excellent back-up. Picard barely had anything else to do than to be present and keep up the order protocol demanded.

On the fourth day, the USS _Grissom_ – a small, _Oberth_ -class vessel, frequently used for scientific missions – arrived, carrying more equipment for the expedition as well as more personnel. With her came Rear Admiral Bennett, the Judge Advocate General of Starfleet.

“We’ve studied your report very carefully, Captain,” he told Picard, “and I agree with you that neither Commander Riker, nor Dr Boudreau were responsible for whatever they had done under the influence of the alien artefact. There _will_ be a debriefing, of course, but they won’t have to fear any legal consequences.”

“What about Dr Roark?” Picard asked.

The admiral shrugged. “He’s not – and has never been – a member of Starfleet. He’s not within our jurisdiction. I assume that he, too, will be able to go free, unless Dr Boudreau wants to press charges.”

“She won’t,” Picard said. “She doesn’t blame him for something that wasn’t really his fault.”

“That is good, then. Will he or Dr Boudreau be able to continue working together?” the admiral asked.

Picard shook his head. “That seems unlikely at the moment. According to Dr Crusher, Dr Roark has suffered severe neural damage through the contact with the skull and will need extensive therapy before he’d be able to return to work.”

The admiral raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“But you told me that Commander Riker _hadn’t_ suffered anything like that,” he said.

Picard nodded. “We thought so at the time when I sent in my first report. In the meantime, further examinations have revealed that he hadn’t come off without damage, either. But Dr Roark is in a much worse shape. Apparently, Centaurians have a more severe reaction to the artefact than humans. Something to do with their brain chemistry, if I’ve understood it correctly.”

“I see,” the admiral pondered over the news for a moment. “Would it be possible to speak with Commander Riker?”

“Of course, Admiral,” Picard stood. “Please come with me.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They found Riker still in sickbay, although no longer in the intensive care area. He was sitting in the rec room, on his own, reading something on his PADD. When Picard and Bennett entered, he rose hurriedly and stood at attention.

“Admiral. Captain.”

“At ease, Commander,” Bennett waved in the direction of the chairs and they all sit. “How are you doing?”

Riker sighed. “Better; thank you, sir. Still have the one or other blackout, though.”

“What kind of blackouts?” the admiral inquired. “There stood nothing about them in Dr Crusher’s report.”

“Apparently, my brain keeps trying to connect with the skull; and when it can’t, it simply shuts down for short periods,” Riker explained glumly. “Deanna – Counselor Troi – says I’ll need therapy before I’d be fit for duty again.”

“Well, it’s a good thing, then, that all Starfleet ships have their own therapists in these days,” Bennett said. “I’m sure Counselor Troi will be able to help you. Her reputation as a psychiatrist is excellent.”

Riker shook his head. “She didn’t mean psychotherapy, sir. There was some neural damage that needs to be repaired. I used that cursed thing a lot, without the safeties that could have lessened the effect. Dr Crusher has already arranged for me – _and_ for Dr Roark – our respective places in a Vulcan-led special clinic.”

“Can’t she treat you on the _Enterprise_?” Picard asked in surprise.

“No; Dr Crusher is not a neuro-surgeon; and this treatment requires special technology,” Dr Selar entered the rec room to adjust Riker’s cortical monitor. “The _Enterprise_ is not yet equipped with such technology. However, the neuro-surgical ward of the Central Hospital on Vulcana Regar agreed to treat both Commander Riker and Dr Roark. Their scientists have developed both the method and the technology and are currently best suited to use them,” she nodded her greetings and left.

“Vulcana Regar, eh?” Bennett commented. “The scientific colony with the somewhat _different_ Vulcans. You’re in for an interesting experience, Commander.”

“Different in what way?” Riker asked with a frown.

“You’ll see, Commander,” the admiral chuckled. “Apparently, they’ve been trying to re-integrate their emotions - instead of suppressing them completely - for the last century or so.”

“And? Have they succeeded?” Picard asked with interest.

Bennett shrugged. “That question still can’t be answered with absolute certainty. There have been setbacks – many of them – but there has also been progress. The general consensus is that they’ll need centuries until full integration… assuming it _is_ possible at all. In the meantime, though, the fact that they allow their instinct and hunches to play a role makes their scientific research very inspired and even more brilliant than Vulcan science already is.”

“Sounds promising,” Picard commented, relieved that he wouldn’t have to send his first officer to a colony full of out-of-control Vulcans. “It seems we’ll have you back in no time, Number One.”

“I hope so,” Riker looked from Picard to Bennett and back, clearly uncomfortable. “Sir, I’d like to apologize for everything that happened…”

It was hard to tell which one of them he was addressing, but Bennett waved off his concerns before he could have finished.

“No need for that, Commander. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, your actions were successful in getting the Ferengi off the planet, and that in itself has to be worth something. As they would put it: _There is no substitute for success_.”

“I guess so,” Riker allowed, still a little doubtfully.

“See that you make a full recovery first,” Bennett told him. “We’ll discuss everything else at a later time.”

“Aye sir,” Riker answered a little glumly, and the two left him alone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“I have here your new orders, Jean-Luc,” Bennett said later, in Picard’s ready room, handing the captain an isolinear chip. “There has been a terrorist attack against the Federation settlement on the planet Solarion IV, near the Cardassian border. The infrastructure has been completely destroyed. The survivors need to be evacuated to Lya Station Alpha, until further decision about their future.”

“But that’s halfway across the Alpha Quadrant!” Picard protested. “Surely, there have to be ships that are closer to the Solarion system!”

“There are; and they, too, have been ordered to help with the evacuation,” the admiral replied. “For a new colony, Solarion IV was a well-populated one. Scientists from all over the Federation came to study the planet’s unusual Oort cloud.”

“I still don’t understand why _we_ are needed there,” Picard said stubbornly. 

He didn’t question his orders, as a rule, but this assignment appeared fairly illogical to him… on the surface, at least. There had to be a deeper reason.

“Because Starfleet Command believes that the presence of our flagship would be a clear warning for the attackers,” the admiral replied bluntly.

“Do we know who they are?” Picard asked.

“Not for sure; the colony was attacked by an unknown starship,” Bennett admitted. “Unfortunately, there are no visual records, as the central building of the colony was completely destroyed. But Admiral Kennelly believes that it must have been a splinter group of Bajoran terrorists, operating out of the Velo system.”

“But why would they waste their resources on attacking a Federation colony? We never had any problems with the Bajorans,” Picard pointed out logically. “They are a people forced out of their homeword, living in exile. Most of their refugee camps have barely got the means to feed their people.”

“Admiral Kennelly thinks that they’re seeking to involve the Federation in the Bajoran dispute with the Cardassian Empire,” Bennett explained.

Picard didn’t find _that_ very convincing.

“They’re going at it the worst possible way then,” he said. “Attacking our colonies wouldn’t make us side with them, would it?”

“Not very likely,” the admiral agreed. “But they’re a desperate people, Jean-Luc. And if they weren’t the ones to attack the colony, the presence of the _Enterprise_ will be a clear message for the real culprits, too.”

“Or provoke them to further actions,” Picard commented dryly.

“Unfortunately, such reactions can’t be calculated in advance,” Bennett admitted. “Whatever the outcome, though, the survivors must be evacuated. You have your orders, Captain; I’ll take over the negotiations for you. You can drop off Commander Riker and Dr Roark on Vulcana Regar on your way to Solarion IV.”

He stood. “Well, I must go now. Please, transfer all expedition members to the _Grissom_ before you break orbit.”

“Aye, sir,” Picard called an ensign to show the admiral to Transporter Room Three and returned to the bridge.

“Ensign Felton,” he said to the flight controller officer on duty. “Set a course for the planet Solarion IV, near the Cardassian border; the coordinates will be in the navigation computer.”

“Course programmed and set, sir,” the pretty blonde reported a minute or so later.

“Break orbit,” Picard ordered. “Set off for Solarion IV with Warp 6. Engage.”

“Aye, sir,” Felton acknowledged; her fingers danced across the controls, and in the next moment, the _Enterprise_ set off for deep space.

~The End~

Soledad_Cartwright@29.08.2014


End file.
